


Three Years

by fadedskylines



Category: Bandom, Cobra Starship, Fall Out Boy, My Chemical Romance, Panic! at the Disco, The Academy Is..., Twenty One Pilots
Genre: F/M, Frerard, M/M, Peterick, Prison, Ryden, dub-con, joshler - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-01
Updated: 2015-11-25
Packaged: 2018-02-07 01:45:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 11
Words: 27,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1880403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fadedskylines/pseuds/fadedskylines
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Patrick is wrongly accused of robbing a bank and is sentenced to three years in jail. All he wants is to get out. His cellmate, Pete, doesn't agree so much.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: This is in no way promoting violence, drug use, trespass, theft, or any other crimes.  
> With that aside, thank you for reading and please enjoy!

"You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to talk to a lawyer and have him present with you while you are being questioned."

The policeman goes right on down the list. Patrick finally relaxes his muscles and lets his head fall limp against the car window, the glass cold on his warm cheek. There's a small gathering of employees outside the bank that look on at the scene, and he can't help but think about each and every pair of eyes on him.

It's not fair, and it's not right. He's not to blame; he doesn't deserve a segment of news coverage or disgusted stares or any of this. He didn't do it. He didn't rob the bank, he just didn't-

"Do you understand these right as they have been read to you?"

Patrick picks his head up from the window and looks back at the crowd. They all look away, pretend they're conversing with one another or picking at a crack in the sidewalk, anything but giving attention to an alleged criminal. His heart slows and his head aches like this is all a bad dream, one hell of a nightmare that he just has to wake up from.

The policeman nudges his arm and Patrick sighs.

"I do."

*

He doesn't know why and he doesn't know how, but he loses the case. He'd told his lawyer he's innocent, he'd never rob a bank and he's never even thought about it-he was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.

But it isn't enough for him to walk free.

*

When you first go to prison, they put you in a cell with other new inmates-they call this the fish tank. Patrick generally hides away in his corner and avoids eye contact with the others, and, generally, they do the same. There's not enough corners for all of them, so some make do with resting their head on the wall or lying on the floor.

One day, William, one of the poor souls who missed his opportunity to grab a corner, breaks down into tears and Gabe calls him a bitch.

It's the first words anyone's spoken.

Gabe sighs. "Look, there's no need to be crying."

"I have a wife and a kid, asshole." William says, wiping the tears off his face. He looks more flustered than angry.

"Should've thought about that before you did it," Joe, the guy opposite of Patrick's corner, laughs, "you do the crime, you do the time."

"Well, what'd you do?" William asks.

"I had weed." He says bluntly. "What about you?"

"I..." William casts his eyes downward. "Trespassing."

"Lame." Gabe smiles. "I had drugs, too. Cocaine, actually."

Brent, the kid crammed against Patrick's back, lights up at that. "Me too!"

"I can't believe you're proud of that!" William exclaims.

"Look man, I'm just proud I wasn't arrested for criminal trespass, so," Brent rolls his eyes, "fuck off."

Patrick shifts away from Brent, his arm wedging into the corner. Brent's still pressed against him, so Patrick casually nudges him away.

"Hey, asshole, what are you doing?" Brent furrows his eyebrows. Gabe laughs behind him.

Patrick moves his arm out of the corner so his blood can properly circulate. "I just-"

"Ever heard of personal space?" Joe says. "There's plenty of room on the walls, dude, you don't have to try and steal his corner."

Brent reluctantly moves over, giving Patrick room to breathe. Joe smiles at Patrick afterwards and nods his head.

*

Thirty days or so pass and Patrick is finally pulled out of the fish tank and out into his cell. He hopes he gets Joe or William as a cellmate, even though the chances are slim. He just wants someone who won't rape him, and he knows that's already too much to ask.

The guard escorts him to his cell. His cellmate's facing the wall, staring intently at the layers of dirt hiding the white. He stays that way for a while, not even catching a glimpse at Patrick until late that evening.

When he finally turns around, Patrick nearly faints.

He's hot. Really, _really_ hot.

"My name's Pete." He says, smiling at Patrick. "What's your name? You're new here aren't you?"

"Patrick. Oh, and yeah." Patrick nods.

"Fresh out of the fish tank," Pete grins. "What are you in for?"

Patrick frowns. "Theft."

"Selling weed." Pete groans. "Sentenced to five years. I got three left."

"Wow, really? I was sentenced to three years." Patrick says a little too enthusiastically. Pete'll be here as long as he is. At least he'll have something to look at.

"You got three years for theft?" Pete cocks an eyebrow.

"Well, I," Patrick pauses. "I didn't do it. I swear to God I didn't, and I don't know how, but I got arrested and still lost the case. I _really_ didn't do it."

Pete nods and motions for him to continue. "I believe you."

"Yeah, well, the guy who really did it, he didn't actually take any money. He tried to, then he ran away, and they thought I was the guy." Patrick sighs. "And here I am now."

Pete nods and looks out the barred window. The sun has already set and stars span the sky. He takes a deep breath and smiles.

"First tip for prison survival: Don't share your story with anyone." Pete says. "But your story's safe with me."

"Why is it bad to share my story?" Patrick asks.

"Because people will use that to their advantage." Pete looks angry. "Just go to sleep, Patrick."

And he does.

*

Pete is extremely nice for an inmate. Sure, he's just a drug dealer and not an axe murderer, but it's nice to have someone to eat with. He talks about other inmates, which ones to go to for drugs or to hook up with, but never does he talk about himself. Patrick just nods along with everything, like he understands.

Pete probably knows that Patrick has no idea what most of the lingo even means, but he pretends the kid has more street smarts than he thinks he does.

"Oh shit, is that Gabe?" Pete refrains from shoving a spoonful of what appears to be mashed potatoes into his mouth.

Patrick glances over his shoulder, looking around for the guy. "Yeah, you know him?"

"Hell yeah!" Pete grins and waves an arm in the air. "Gabe!"

Gabe's walking away from the kitchen when he hears him. "Pete!"

He walks over and sits down next to Patrick, scooting over until he's sitting straight across from Pete. "What a coincidence! What are you in for?"

Pete laughs. "Got caught selling weed. Speaking of which," he leans in close to Gabe and Patrick suddenly feels out of place. "Did you get caught with my stuff?"

Gabe's smile falls off of his face. He balls his hands into fists beneath the table and coughs. "Nah, man, it was the other guy-"

"Yeah, sure it fucking was." Pete rolls his eyes. "I'm your only dealer."

"How do you know that?" Gabe says. "Maybe I really _did_ get it from that other guy across town."

"You couldn't have," Pete laughs, "because there _is_ no other guy across town, dumbass. As long as you didn't say where you got it from, right?"

Gabe nods.

"Right?" Pete asks again.

"Yeah, right." Gabe relaxes his hands. "Wouldn't rat on my favorite guy." He smiles and gets up, swiftly making an exit. Patrick scoots back over to where he was before Gabe had so rudely pushed him away.

"People here know each other." Pete says. "Like I know Gabe is a loyal customer. Or that Brendon, that real cute boy over there, ran weed between me and Gabe, and sometimes my other regulars. And Ryan, his lowkey boyfriend, has no clue about it all. As far as he knows, Brendon is in for trespass."

Patrick shoots Pete a confused look.

"Ryan's in for trespass, too." Pete elaborates. "But like I said, it's bad to tell people your story. It makes it real easy to judge your character. Like I've judged that kid William as a little bitch."

Patrick laughs. "Gabe said that, too."

"When?" Pete furrows his brows.

"In the, uh," Patrick pauses, "the fish tank."

"I've started to lose track of who's new and who's been in for God knows how long." Pete mutters. "I think Frank's been in here for, what, ten years? A hell of a lot longer than I have."

"I don't want to be here for three years." Patrick blurts out.

Pete stays quiet after that, eating his oddly stale mashed potatoes and mushy rice. Patrick lost his appetite the moment he saw the food, but he manages to get a few bites in every few minutes. He waits for Pete to answer in between each fraction of rice, but he never does.

They finally return to their cell, and Pete rolls over to face the wall.

He turns around when the Sun finally sets again.

"Look, Patrick, I don't think it's that bad. I've been in for nearly as long as your sentence, and it's not too shabby. You get used to it." Pete whispers. "You don't even have to make friends with the other inmates, 'Trick. I'm making it easy for you. You got me for these next three years."

He hooks an arm around Patrick's neck and gives him a brief pat on the arm before retracting his hold. "You'll be fine."

Pete climbs up to his bunk and falls asleep, leaving Patrick as the only one awake.

 _Pete really is extremely nice for an inmate_ , Patrick thinks, rolling over on his side and shutting his eyes.

　

　

　

　

　

 


	2. Chapter 2

"Brendon wants to sit with us today." Pete says, waking Patrick up by shaking his shoulder. "At breakfast," he adds.

Patrick rubs his eyes and sits up in his bunk. "Brendon?"

"Yeah. Remember that guy I told you used to run weed for me?" Pete explains. "His boyfriend Ryan, they're both real cute, uh..."

"No, yeah, uh. It's fine." Patrick stutters. "Is Ryan sitting with us too?"

Pete nods. "They're dating. And not even in a predator/prey cellmate kind of relationship. They're full-on, romantically dating. That's just insane."

Patrick squints. "The dating part?"

"The dating in _prison_ part," Pete laughs. "Now, get up. It's almost time to eat breakfast."

"How do you know that?" Patrick asks.

"The guards are walking up and down the halls." Pete hushes Patrick. "If you listen close, you can hear footsteps. And the sun's up, as far as I can tell from the window. The two tell-tale signs that they're about to throw us out into the cafeteria."

Patrick groans and falls back onto his bed.

*

Breakfast isn't as awkward as Patrick expects. Ryan stays quiet for the most part and twiddles his thumbs, adding onto what Brendon says every few sentences. Patrick sits across from him, eating a few bites of his toast and watching the crumbs fall on his lap. Pete is right beside him, talking animatedly with Brendon about Gabe.

"Of all the things he's done," Brendon pauses to swallow the lump of bread in his mouth, "I can't believe he was only caught for drug possesion."

"Right?" Pete grins. "He was a hitman for a hot second, you know. He owed this one mobster a bunch of money, but he couldn't pay it off, so he was forced to, you know. Kill people."

Brendon nods. "Yeah, no. He had to resort to some crazy shit to pay off his debts. You heard about that little prostitution ring he was involved in?"

"Yeah," Pete says, "but speaking of resorting to some crazy shit, did you ever pay off that debt to Spencer?"

Silence sets in the air and Patrick finally speaks up. "Isn't he a corrections officer?"

"You've been in here for, what, a month?" Pete raises his eyebrows. "How'd you learn his name?"

Patrick shrugs. "I heard Gabe talking about him."

"Yeah, well, I'll tell you more about him later." Pete whispers, then leans back and continues. "Anyways, Brendon?"

"Ryan, can you throw my tray away? My knee's killing me." Brendon asks, blowing a kiss at Ryan as he walks away.

He speaks up again once Ryan's out of range."No, I haven't paid it off. I don't know how, but Spencer's telling me if I don't pay up soon he'll tell some high-ups I smuggled drugs in or some bullshit like that."

"You could always just sleep with him," Pete suggests.

"What do you think I've been doing?" Brendon groans. "Blowjobs or 'bail money,'" he makes air quotations with his fingers.

Patrick lets out an "oh," earning him a dirty look from Brendon.

"It's not like I want to." Brendon sighs. "But Ryan has a little thing for weed, and I just..." He trails off as Ryan returns to the table.

"Meal's over!" One of the guards yells, already starting on escorting inmates out of the cafeteria.

Pete starts walking out, Patrick following close behind him. One of the officers with a prominent brown stubble keeps his gaze trained on Patrick. After a few moments of watching him walking down the hall, he pulls him away from the crowd. Pete notices Patrick's absence immediately, spinning around and resisting the flow of the crowd to try and find him.

"I need to talk to you," the officer pulls Patrick by the wrist.

Patrick just nods and walks behind him, looking away from the other inmates. Pete reaches out to grab Patrick's arm, but another officer pulls him away.

"Patrick!" Pete yells, and, luckily, he turns around.

The officer slams the back of his hand on Pete's back and pushes him forward. "Keep moving."

Pete grunts, trying to wriggle out of his grasp.

"Solitary confinement is always an option." The officer says.

Pete closes his eyes and lets the officer guide him through the crowd.

*

"This is my office." The officer says, smiling. "You look like a man who wants things he can't..." He walks over to Patrick and urges him towards the chair in front of his desk. Patrick reluctantly takes a seat.

"Get in prison," he finishes. He opens a drawer in the desk and pulls out a bag of weed and what appears to be cocaine. "What's your name?"

"Uh, Patrick." Patrick watches him open up the small ziploc bag.

"Well, what do you like, Patrick?" The officer smiles. "I can get you whatever you want."

"I don't," Patrick shakes his head. "I don't do drugs."

"That's a shame," he closes the ziploc bag. "But when you ever feel curious to start-just know I'm always here, sweetheart." He winks at Patrick and motions towards the door.

"Wait, uh-" Patrick pauses. "What's your name?"

The officer laughs. "Spencer."

Something tightens in Patrick's throat.

"Now you know what to scream next time." Spencer cackles and opens the bag up again.

Patrick feels like he's about to throw up.

*

"What the hell, man?" Pete screams when Patrick finally returns to the cell.

"Pete, I need to tell you something-" Patrick rushes out, his back sliding against the wall as he sat down in the corner.

"No, I need to tell _you_ something!" Pete interrupts. "Do you know who that was?"

"Spencer," Patrick answers. "He offered me drugs and-"

"Did you take any?" Pete's eyes are wide.

"No-Jesus, Pete, will you let me finish?" Patrick lets out a breath. "Anyways, I told him I don't do drugs and, well, I asked his name and he told me, and I think he's going to, y'know-"

"Rape you?" Pete finishes Patrick's sentence for him. "That's what Brendon was talking about! Look, Patrick, Spencer can't do anything unless you take drugs from him. Then, you could actually fail a drug test. So don't give him that power."

"Is that what happened with Brendon?" Patrick's voice cracks. "He wanted weed for Ryan, and then he couldn't afford it, so he had to..."

"Yeah." Pete nods.

"Oh." Patrick looks out the window. "But he doesn't want to, at least."

"I know. Spencer's just an asshole, is all." Pete sighs. "Brendon's a good kid. Well, for the most part."

Patrick raises an eyebrow, but Pete just shakes his head and changes the subject. "I think tomorrow's Monday. You'll have to start working."

"Penal labor?" Patrick asks.

"Obviously," Pete chuckles, "I work in the woodshop. I make furniture and all that, and innocent civillians at Ashley's Furniture Store buy chairs not knowing it was made by the hands of cons."

Patrick laughs. "Maybe I'll work in the woodshop, too?"

"Maybe," Pete shrugs, "you should ask a guard at lunch."

"Yeah," Patrick begins, "speaking of which, is Brendon eating with us again?"

"Probably." Pete answers.

Their short-lived conversation ends there when Pete rolls over and falls asleep. Patrick watches him, just for a few moments, studying the way his chest rises and falls and how his fingers dangle off the edge of the mattress. He looks at ease.

After a few moments, Patrick sleeps, too.

*

Patrick is assigned to the prison laundry. He sees Ryan there too, along with William. He passes by them on the way to a washer, a basket of dirty clothes in his small arms.

"Um, Ryan?" Patrick calls. "Do you know how to work the washer?"

"Yeah, see," Ryan walks over and reaches out for the dial, "you use warm water for light clothes." He cranks the dial to the right. "And cold water for dark clothes."

Patrick nods and watches William walk over in the corner of his eyes.

"Patrick!" William exclaims. "Haven't seen you since the fish tank."

"Yeah," Patrick smiles, even though he didn't speak to William at all in the tank. He vaguely remembers some of the people that were in the tank with him, mostly Gabe-and that's just because he'd sat with him and Pete at lunch a few days ago.

William grins back until one of the dryers start beeping. He hurries over to it, pulling out pants and shirts and folding them in expert time.

"How long have you been working here?" Patrick asks. "You're, like, extremely good at folding stuff."

William laughs. "Don't you remember? I said I have a kid and a wife. Doing laundry is a necessary skill."

"What he's trying to tell you is that he's a stick in the mud." Ryan fumbles with the edges of a police uniform, grimacing at it. "Never done anything interesting in his life."

"Hey, that's not true!" William laughs. "I trespassed in _private_ property, I'll have you know."

"Same here," Ryan rolls his eyes, "but I also smoke weed."

The sound of footsteps startle them. "Ooh, marijuana!"

They all spin around, coming face to face with Frank Iero. He's got a tight grip around an empty laundry basket as he pulls open the dryer and shoves black undershirts into it.

" _You're_ cool," Frank laughs, making William jump. "Hey." He points at Patrick. "You're new here, aren't you?"

Patrick nods. Frank nods back at him and walks away, basket in tow.

"That guy is scary as hell," Ryan lets out a big breath he'd been holding in.

"He could probably break all of your bones with one finger." William says, smirking at Ryan.

"Yours too!" Ryan retorts, sticking up his middle finger. "Anyway, rumor has it Frank got the life sentence. And that he commited first degree murder."

"But this is a prison," Patrick cuts in, "isn't that normal?"

Ryan shakes his head. "Not really. Most of the people in here are just in for drug sales or possession, with the occasional lame trespasser like William and I."

"Did you guys know each other beforehand?" Patrick asks. "You're awfully close."

"Emphasis on the awfully," William laughs and goes back to folding shirts. "I went to college with Ryan. We had a few classes together and the rest was history."

"We did, in fact, have history classes together." Ryan continues. "But _history_ together? No, William's too bland for me. A friendship could never work out between us."

"Fuck you." William tosses a shirt at Ryan's head.

"Okay, back to your cells!" A guard yells, opening up the door. Patrick follows William and Ryan out, listening to their small talk and keeping his head down.

*

"So how was your first day of work?" Pete smiles up at Patrick.

"Not so bad." Patrick sits down on his bunk. "I'm there with Frank Iero. And Ryan and William."

Pete frowns. "William?"

"What's wrong with William?" Patrick asks.

"Nothing, he's just..." Pete trails off and grimaces. "Too much for me."

Patrick doesn't press further. He stretches his legs out and lies on his back, staring up at the metal beneath Pete's bed. He takes his index finger and traces the scrapes on it. Someone was there before him, carving lines to count the days. The lines grow longer and longer, the last one running from one edge of the bunk to the other. Patrick closes his eyes and tries to imagine someone laying right where he is, sharpening their nails and scratching and peeling off layers of rust and paint.

"Pete, who was your cellmate before me?" His eyes are still closed.

Pete hums. "Some kid. There was something wrong with him, but no one found out in time. He just died one day. Something natural, I think."

Patrick sits up. "Did he die in here?" His voice is shaky, but he can't really help his fear of ghosts.

"Nah. He had a heart attack in the cafeteria, I think. I really don't remember." Pete says. "I was in here alone for a while."

Patrick can't think of anything to say. He can't imagine being alone in here-he'd probably pick up where that dead kid left off on the scratch marks.

"Would you rather be alone?" Patrick speaks up after a few moments.

Pete nearly whispers back, "I'm not sure."

Patrick clears his throat and moves onto his side.

"God, Patrick, I didn't mean-" Pete starts.

"It's fine," Patrick says. "I'm just tired."

Pete's a generous guy. Patrick should just be grateful he hasn't been shoved up against a wall, because Pete definitely could've done that by now. He just doesn't want to be here, especially for something he didn't do, and now he doesn't want to be here because he doesn't know anyone. Or he doesn't know enough.

Pete has Gabe and Brendon and everyone, but Patrick doesn't belong here. He thought he could get used to it, but now it's just a wasted hope. He can barely remember who he was before all of this had happened.

Pete leans over the edge of his bunk. "Patrick, I'm-"

"It's fine!" Patrick shouts, then sighs. "I don't even know you; it's fine."

Something starts tugging Pete's lips down and he jumps off of his bunk. He sits beside Patrick on his bed, keeping a few inches of space between them.

"You know what happens when you're in here alone?" Pete asks, his voice soft. "You get to think a lot. And you know what happens when you think a lot?"

He motions towards the scratches on the bunk's metal and continues. "You end up like that kid. His thoughts were killing him. And I think my thoughts are killing me, too. So there. You know me now."

Patrick looks away from Pete.

"What's wrong?" Pete prods.

 _I just don't want to be here,_ Patrick thinks.

"C'mon, Patrick." Pete's lips are in a tight line.

"I was a bank accountant." Patrick blurts out. "Ironic, I know, but I was. I had good parents. My brother plays the violin. I had a youtube channel, and I'd sing and play guitar and people thought I was good, I guess. I had a little apartment and I didn't really know anyone in the complex and I don't think I belonged there either."

It all comes out in a rush, but he doesn't want to take it back.

"Is that what this is all about?" Pete asks. "You don't think you belong here?"

"I don't think I belong anywhere," Patrick responds.

"That's my line." Pete sounds sad, but he's still smiling. "I've been a drug dealer for so long, but before that-I played soccer, I think. My parents were nice. I played video games and messed around with this old bass guitar in our basement. I can barely remember more than that."

"Guess you didn't belong there?" Patrick winces at his own words. He didn't mean to sound that harsh.

Pete shakes his head. "I was depressed. I took pills. I attempted suicide. But,"

He stands up.

"Whatever. You don't even know me, right?" He laughs.

"Well, now I do." Patrick smiles. "Sorry about that little, um, outburst."

"Forget about it." Pete pats Patrick's head. "I hear footsteps. It's almost time for dinner."

*

It feels like everyone is at their table.

Brendon has joined them once again, so of course Ryan's there, too. Except Ryan's still a little tense around Pete so he invites William over once Brendon has struck up a conversation. Gabe passes by a few times, wandering between the kitchen and a table in the far corner, and he eventually decides to join in.

Patrick doesn't say anything. He keeps his head down and follows the conversations on either side of him. He notices Spencer in the corner, keeping heavy watch over their table.

He makes the mistake of looking up and catches eye contact with him. Spencer winks and bows his head, and Patrick excuses himself to throw away his food. He isn't hungry anymore.

He starts tipping his tray towards the trash before someone starts calling him.

"Patrick." It's Frank, sitting by himself. "You're gonna waste all that food?"

Patrick grips the edges of his tray tighter. Frank cracks one of his knuckles and Patrick's sure that these are his last living moments, all because some fucked up corrections officer winked at him and now he's lost his appetite. He's supposed to die of old age in picket fence America and _not_ in a shitty cafeteria swarming with convicts.

 _This is so not fair_ , Patrick thinks.

"Sit down," Frank beckons, "I'll eat your food if you don't want it."

Patrick reluctantly takes a seat across from Frank. He glances back towards the crowded table. Pete's staring back at him and his eyes are empty. Patrick feels something jolt in his chest.

Frank eats about half the meatloaf while he isn't looking. "Why were you gonna throw all of this away? People would kill for this."

Patrick's eyes widen and Frank laughs.

"I have a bad choice of words." Frank shakes his head. "But so does your boyfriend over there. I can't tell if Gabe's laughing or on the verge of crying."

"Pete's not my boyfriend." It's the first thing Patrick's said to Frank. He can't tell if he's defending himself or defending Pete, but he hopes for the former. If he dies, he wants to go down with a fight.

"Yeah, well, you should go back." Frank says.

Patrick stills.

"I _said_ you should go back," Frank repeats, and Patrick's up in a matter of seconds.

*

"So how does it feel to have your life flashing before your eyes?" Pete asks when they're back in the cell. He's grinning from ear to ear and Patrick wants to slap him. It's not his fault he's an easy target.

"Fuck you, Pete." Patrick rolls his eyes.

"Look at what jail's done to you!" Pete gasps, crowding Patrick's space. "You're cursing now!"

"Literally go fuck yourself," Patrick laughs and pushes Pete away.

Pete sighs. "I need to. Aside from what I said earlier, you jack off a lot when you're alone, too."

"I did _not_ need to know that." Patrick says.

Pete laughs. He lets silence swell in the air for a few moments before talking again. "You wouldn't mind if I did, right?"

Patrick quirks an eyebrow. "Did wha-Oh. No, no, it's fine. I don't care, I'll just." He stutters and averts his gaze from Pete. He feels like a blushing virgin all of a sudden, but Pete tends to do that to him.

"Okay." Pete looks at him for a while before climbing up to his bunk.

Patrick hears a zipper, and then there's skin slapping against skin. He covers his ears, but the bunks keep creaking loud enough to seep through his hand barriers. Pete's trying to be quiet, or at least Patrick hopes he is, but he's not trying hard enough. He makes little noises, moans and sighs that span over every octave imaginable.

When he comes, a string of strangled groans, he looks over the edge of his bed. Patrick pretends to be asleep, shutting his eyelids too tight and sweating a little too much.

"I know you're not asleep," Pete says. He sounds out of breath. "I'm sorry you had to hear that."

Patrick opens his eyes after a minute. Pete's still staring. "It's fine."

"Okay," and Pete looks at him just like he did earlier. "Go to sleep."

And Patrick looks at Pete in the same way, then closes his eyes.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to try to post on Fridays, although next week's chapter won't be posted on Friday. It'll probably be posted on Saturday or Sunday.

"What's wrong?" Brendon tilts his head and looks up at Pete from underneath his goggles. There's woodchips all over his shirt and a few splinters in his forearms. It's not his fault they have to wear their normal uniforms to the woodshop.

Pete shakes his head and starts hammering some nails into whatever it is he's making. _He_ can't even tell. "More like what's not wrong," he huffs out.

"You're angry Patrick's not putting out?" Brendon laughs, but Pete just gives him a glare.

"No. That's not it." Pete says, omitting the 'fuck you.' "You're angry you still have to fuck Spencer to feed your boyfriend's weed addiction?"

Brendon's lips pull into a tight line. He taps his fingers on his sandpaper. "Look, it's not like that." He says, even though it is like that.

Pete doesn't answer for a while and focuses on hammering things and looking for screwdrivers. Brendon glances at Pete every few minutes, worry and guilt plastered on his face. It looks more like guilt, but Pete's not too good at reading people.

"I'm sorry." Brendon finally says. "But what's wrong?"

Pete asks, "Before you dated Ryan, did you ever jack off in your cell? While he was in there?"

Brendon bursts out in laughter and clings onto the table. "You jacked off while Patrick was there? Oh my God!"

Pete fights the urge to take a hammer to Brendon's mouth. "I tell you what's wrong and you just laugh?"

"No, no," Brendon tries to breathe, "I just-that's a lot to take in. But anyways, did he know you were...y'know."

"Yeah. I kind of told him I was going to, and then I did, and now I feel awkward." Pete says.

Brendon's recovered from his laughing fit for the most part. "Well, how did he react afterwards?"

"He tried to pretend he was asleep." Pete answers.

Brendon's grinning and laughing like he's formulated the perfect punch line. "And did he have a boner, too?"

Pete shoots a glare at him and reaches for an empty tin of nails. "Looks like I have to go get some more."

"Looks like you need to start paying attention to _details_ , Pete." Brendon's still smiling. "Let's say he did. How would you react? The same way a typical gay porn actor would or-"

Pete throws his empty tin cup at Brendon's face and laughs. "I'm about to sneak your ADHD meds back in here. I'm more than willing to face the consequences."

"I'll ask Spencer for a pack of valiums next time I see him, 'cause that stick up your ass is so noticeable, dude." Brendon chuckles and tosses the tin right at Pete's butt. It falls to the floor with a quiet _clang_.

Pete reaches down to pick it up and Brendon laughs again.

"Take it out or stick it up Patrick's." Brendon strings a long line of obscene hand gestures, most of which go ignored. "C'mon, Pete, he's your cellmate."

"Doesn't mean he's entitled to me or that I'm entitled to him." Pete says sharply. He starts hammering hard at a nail in the wood, veins popping out all over his body.

Brendon stays quiet after that.

*

"Brendon's not sitting with us today?" Patrick asks at lunch.

Pete grunts. "No. I'm glad he isn't, to tell you the truth."

"Wow, you make a lot of enemies here." Patrick says and takes a small bite out of the mushy green vegetable sticking to the edge of his tray.

"I didn't make Brendon my enemy, _he_ did," Pete stabs his fork in the middle of his meatloaf. Patrick jumps.

"What do you mean?" He twirls his fork in the green leaves.

"Have I told you why I'm in here?" Pete starts. "Because that explains everything."

"You told me you were a dealer. Besides, I thought it was bad to tell people your story." Patrick smiles, but Pete doesn't. It's a little disarming.

"I've already told you my story. Too late to take that back." Pete says. "Anyway, I got sentenced to five years for drug sales, blah blah, you know that. See, one day I was just organizing my stash, and suddenly the police just kicks down my door. They just arrested me, right then and there. And of course I got a guilty verdict."

"I still don't see why that relates to Brendon." Patrick interrupts him.

"I know someone named me as their dealer; someone in here. The police told me that much, 'cause they can't just break into your house and arrest you. 'You should really revaluate your friends,' they said." Pete growls.

"Calm down, Pete." Patrick starts, because Pete's starting to look like his blood pressure is pushing through the roof.

He ignores him. "Who else could it be? Gabe's just a dude trying to get through his money crisis. But Brendon worked for me, and he got here before me. He must've got caught when he was delivering weed and then he named me so he could run away from a maximum sentence."

"So now you have a grudge against him," Patrick concludes.

Pete nods. "And then he has the nerve to," he pauses, recalling the conversation he had with Brendon earlier.

He doesn't want to talk about that with Patrick. Not at all. Patrick seems to get the message and he ducks his head down, focusing on poking at his mashed potatoes.

"Anyways, that's why Brendon's on my bad side. So is Ryan." Pete continues, and Patrick's head snaps up.

"What's wrong with Ryan?" Patrick's angry and Pete has to admit, it's a good look on him. "Are you seriously just going to hate someone because their boyfriend landed you in jail?"

Pete pretends to think about his answer. "More or less."

"You're such an asshole, dude." Patrick's completely ignoring his food now. "Ryan's a cool guy. He's one of the few that actually talks to me in the laundry room."

"Yeah, him and William." Pete rolls his eyes. "You shouldn't talk to them. They're pretty much Brendon's lackeys."

"Fuck you." Patrick spits. "I'm sorry, Pete, are we conjoined at the hip? I'm my own person last time I checked. I'll talk to whoever the fuck I want to talk to, whether they're on your bad side or not."

Pete opens his mouth to respond, the beginning of an apology or an argument, but a guard starts sounding a whistle.

Patrick leaves his tray out on the table and walks past him.

*

"I'm sorry." Pete finally apologizes after an hour of silence and tension. Patrick's on his own bunk, which makes Pete feel like he's talking to the ceiling. He wants to look over the edge of his mattress, but he's afraid Patrick will punch him if he so much as catches a glimpse of his face.

He continues. "I didn't really mean that you had to stop talking to them."

"Really?" Patrick sits up, glaring at the edge of Pete's bunk. "Because you sounded like you did."

Pete throws his hands up in the air. "But I didn't!"

A few moments pass and they stay like that, in pure silence. Pete's muscles are tense.

"Okay, maybe I did." Pete admits.

Patrick groans in frustration. His mattress creaks when he turns over on his side and tries to fall asleep.

*

"Can you believe that he would say that to me?" Patrick sighs, and Ryan nods sympathetically. They're back at their jobs in the laundry room, but Patrick's just glad he has an escape from Pete.

Frank walks over and unloads his basket next to Patrick's. "Sounds to me like you're suffering from boy problems."

"Obviously. Not that he's my boyfriend or anything." Patrick's still got a little confidence left over from his rant, and he uses it well. Ryan winces at his tone of voice and thinks of what he'll say at Patrick's funeral.

"What you need is a plan to make him apologize and realize what he did or said or whatever you were talking about was wrong," Frank says.

"Like when wives make their husbands sleep on the couch in TV shows." William chimes in with a timid smile. Frank's presence is getting to him, and it's starting to show.

"Exactly." Frank nods.

"Yeah, well, we're in prison. So," Patrick shrugs. "I can't make Pete sleep on the couch. And William, did you just imply that Pete's my husband?"

"Was I wrong?" William asks Ryan, who hesitates to shake his head. They burst into laughter after a few quiet moments and Patrick turns red.

Frank clears his throat. When the hyenas finally die down, he starts talking again. "How about you let him sit by himself in the cafeteria, and you just ignore him when you're in your cell?"

"The silent treatment?" Patrick contemplates it. "No, Pete'll find a way to make me crack."

"Then at least stay away from him in the cafeteria." Frank says.

"But where will I sit?" Patrick asks.

"God, you're making this more complicated than it is," Frank sighs. "Sit with us."

" _Us_?" William looks like he's been slapped in the face.

"Us. You, Ryan, and me." It rolls of his tongue like it's the most obvious thing in the world, but he couldn't be more wrong.

"Okay," Patrick agrees. Frank nods and walks away, and Ryan's jaw drops open.

"Do you _have_ a death wish?" Ryan's eyes are wide. "Do I need to remind you that that was _Frank Iero_?"

"No; calm down, Ryan, you act like the guy's going to kill you," Patrick's voice falters. "He doesn't have any reason to, right? You don't have any bad history with him?"

Ryan pauses. "No."

"Then there's nothing to be afraid of!" Patrick beams.

*

Ryan's seriously going to shove his bread roll down Patrick's throat if he manages to sneak it back to the laundry room. Frank makes everyone feel awkward and quiet, including Brendon, which is a little annoying and a feat at the same time.

"Do you think the plan is working?" Frank asks.

"Y'know, for a first degree murderer, you're oddly into this kind of stuff," Brendon says and Ryan wants to slap his hand over his mouth. "Like Pete's adoration for Patrick."

"It is _not_ adoration." Patrick glares at Brendon. "He just acts like we need to consistently need to be around each other and follow the other. Well, more like I need to be following him. And-"

Gabe walks up to their table and cuts him off. "I need help in the kitchen. I kind of, sort of, burned oatmeal. I think it's oatmeal, anyways."

Ryan and William nearly knock each other over in an effort to get up. Brendon follows them to the kitchen, leaving Frank and Patrick to themselves.

Frank bites into his bread roll. "Have you ever thought that you guys _do_ need to be around each other? Not even in a romantic kind of a way, just as friends or even two guys that need to stick together for the rest of their sentences. Like an alliance in a war."

Patrick thinks about that, then sighs. "Yeah, but we're individuals. I'm not Pete and he's not me."

"You don't have to be each other. The sun and the moon need each other but they're not the same thing, now are they?" Frank flashes a friendly smile and Patrick relaxes for the first time around him.

"The moon is pretty much a reflection of the sun," Patrick says. "One of us is more dependent on the other; is that what you're saying?"

"Not at all," Frank replies, swallowing a mouthful of potatoes. "Maybe in this scenario, the sun and the moon both depend on each other. There's a little bit of both in the other, a reflection, but they're still strongly different. Like Yin and Yang, or whatever."

"To maintain an equilibrium," Patrick quotes his eighth grade science teacher. "This whole plan is useless, isn't it?"

"Probably." Frank laughs. "But it doesn't matter. Pete's coming over here anyways."

Patrick's head spins to his left, and there Pete is, looking like half the man he normally is.

But he still smiles at Patrick in full.

Patrick can't help feeling like they've achieved balance once again.

*

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," Pete keeps apologizing over and over and he buries his head into Patrick's mattress. He's laughing through it all and it makes Patrick feel light-headed.

"It's fine." Patrick smiles down at him. "Just," he pauses, "don't be an asshole to Ryan or William. They're nice if you get to know them. And _I'm_ sorry."

"For what?" Pete sits up.

"Frank helped me come up with a plan to ignore you and I was totally going to go through with it if you hadn't come over to our table." Patrick laughs.

"Wait. _Frank_ helped you?" Pete says in shock, because the idea of Mr. I-killed-a-man helping _anyone_ sounds absurd.

"He's nice," Patrick says defensively, but Pete just shakes his head and laughs.

"You're crazy, dude." He's grinning from ear to ear.

"Check the record. I'm smiling in my mugshot." Patrick makes a fist and nudges Pete with his foot.

*

Brendon feels sticky and sweaty. Spencer's plastered all over him, his hot breath blowing over the back of his neck. He wants to shove him off and stab him with that pencil hanging off the edge of the desk, but he's got debts that need to be paid and sentences that need to be shortened.

And a boyfriend that needs to get through his withdrawals.

"Thanks." Spencer says, and he slowly peels himself off of Brendon. "You can go now."

Brendon feels humiliated. He can feel eyes piercing his back as he pulls his prison uniform back on, and he tries not to bend over too much to pick up Ryan's weed. He knows he smells like sex and sweat, so he has to beg Spencer to let him stop by the bathroom.

He watches himself in the mirror; watches himself try to scrub off what Spencer has tainted.

*

"Well you seem off today." Pete says. They're in the woodshop, trying to figure out how to properly piece a table together.

"I don't want to talk about it." Brendon grits his teeth and tries hot gluing a leg on.

"I never said you had to talk about it," Pete smirks. "But let me guess. It has to do with Spencer, doesn't it?"

Brendon chucks a can of nails at him. The nails fall to the floor with sharp _clang_ s but neither of them try to pick them up. Pete tightens his grip around his power drill and furrows his eyebrows.

"You don't know shit about it!" Brendon yells.

Pete points his drill at Brendon. "What's your fucking problem, man?"

A few guards rush over, pulling the two away from each other. One is screaming at Pete and pulling the drill out of his hand and another is holding Brendon by his wrists. The other inmates look away because this was bound to happen, and if Pete had actually stabbed Brendon with the drill, no one would be surprised.

"That's it." A guard spits in Pete's face. "You've done enough messing around. Solitary confinement for a week."

"That's hardly any punishment!" Brendon yells. "Give him a year; give him the death penalt-"

"You shut your God damn mouth." Another guard slaps his hand over Brendon's lips. "You're not off the hook either."

"A week." The guard reiterates. "You're coming with me."

Pete's dragged out of the woodshop, handcuffs tight around his wrists.

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took a lot more time than expected. I had a bit of trouble writing it. Also, I may not be able to update every Friday, so I won't have a particular day for my updates. I'll try my hardest to post every week. And thanks for all the kind comments I've been getting! <3

"Brendon, did you see Pete at the woodshop?" Patrick walks over to Brendon's table. "He wasn't in the cell."

"The dumb bastard got himself in solitary confinement," Brendon answers with a frown. Ryan leans in towards him and whispers something that Patrick can't quite pick up. "He pointed a damn drill at me!" Brendon exclaims.

"He wasn't actually gonna stab you." Ryan rolls his eyes.

"But what if he was? My life was in danger." Brendon tries to laugh the tension away, like a little chuckle would make Patrick forget all about Pete.

"Why'd he point a drill at you?" Patrick asks.

Brendon's quiet for a moment. "So I _might've_ thrown a can of nails at him."

Ryan smacks his arm. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

"Don't ask what's wrong with me, ask what's wrong with Pete!" Brendon throws his hands up in the air. "He said something to make me mad."

"Are you a school child?" Ryan's eyes are wide and angry. He lets out a breath and shifts his weight around. "What did he say?"

"Just," Brendon pauses, "something rude."

Ryan grunts and reaches for his fork. He starts shoveling mashed potatoes into his mouth, making sure to look down at his plate. Brendon looks a little sorry, but he makes no move to apologize. An unbearable silence sets in between all of them, and although he still wants to know more about the whole situation, Patrick excuses himself from the table.

He gets half of his green beans into the garbage before someone starts cackling from behind him.

"I thought you would've figured it out by now." It's Frank Iero, speaking between two slabs of meatloaf packed in his teeth. "It's bad to throw away so much food."

Patrick doesn't respond and just takes a seat across from Frank. Meals with Frank are still fresh in his memory, but he still grips his tray a little too tightly. But in his defense, if _any_ first degree murderer was wielding a sharp fork and laughing at him, he'd be scared.

"So you heard a Pete's in solitary?" Frank reaches across the steel table and pulls Patrick's steak apart.

"You have good ears," Patrick says.

"I have a brain." Frank retorts. "Someone would've told you by now."

"Yeah, the 'victim' of the situation." Patrick makes air quotations with his hands.

Frank has a confused look on his face.

"Brendon." Patrick adds.

"Ah. Makes sense." Frank laughs and stabs a piece of steak with his fork. "Pete hates that motherfucker."

"I know, but I still don't get why." Patrick groans. "I mean, I know _why_ , but Pete wouldn't just aim a drill at someone for that."

"Maybe it all starts a little deeper than that." Frank thinks out loud. "Whatever _that_ is. You should investigate."

"Frank, I feel like you're a little too enthusiastic about this." Patrick laughs. He's already let go of the edges of his tray, letting his hands splay out in his lap.

"When you're in jail for nearly a decade, you find new ways of entertainment," Frank smiles.

*

"Ryan," Patrick calls. "Do you know anything else about Pete and Brendon? Besides Brendon running weed for him; I already know that part."

The shirt Ryan's folding falls to the floor. "He ran what?"

Patrick wants to punch himself. Pete had _told_ him Ryan didn't know, and here he is blathering about it to him.

"Forget about it," Patrick clears his throat and starts heading off in the other direction. He can hide behind Frank for a bit.

"No, wait, I-" Ryan trails off. "I knew he wasn't in for trespassing. I just didn't know he was a _delivery_ boy."

Patrick lets out a dumbfounded "oh." He really wants to apologize.

"I'll talk to him about it later." Ryan smiles. "I'll ask him about it for you."

*

"Why didn't you just tell me?" Ryan's gripping onto Brendon's wrists. "It's not that bad."

"I know!" Brendon sighs. "I just thought you'd be dissapointed in me."

"Well, I'm not." Ryan presses a kiss to Brendon's temple. "I'm dissapointed you weren't honest with me."

Brendon's heart skips a beat. He closes his eyes and tries to forget all the places Spencer had touched, like his neck and his collarbone, all the kisses he placed to his navel-

"I love you," Ryan says.

He opens his eyes.

"I love you, too."

*

Patrick feels more lonely than he did living alone in his apartment. It's quiet without Pete, no one to laugh or be laughed at, and certainly no one to talk to. He considers doing everything Pete said he did when he was alone, like jacking off or engraving symbols in his bunk bed, but he ends up trying to will himself to fall asleep.

But then he realizes Pete snores.

Pete moves around when he sleeps.

He makes all kinds of noise, and it's all the more quiet without it.

*

"So, what did you find out?" Patrick asks Ryan.

"Brendon used to sell Pete's weed," Ryan says bluntly. "He'd sell some of it instead of delivering it. And that hurt sales, so Pete ended up hating him. End of story."

"Really?" The edge of the dryer presses into Patrick's belly. "Brendon hurt Pete's business so Pete wants to hurt _him_?"

Ryan nods and throws a dingy pair of pants in the washer.

"Pete wouldn't want to hurt Brendon-" Patrick begins.

"I'm sure he didn't, but that's how it looks." Ryan interrupts him. "I'm trying not to be biased about this, I really am; but my boyfriend thinks he's in danger."

"Well, he's wrong." Patrick says. "Pete's just mad. He wouldn't actually try to kill Brendon. You should tell your boyfriend he's not in danger and should stop overreacting." He's starting to feel a little angry about this, but he feels bad for Brendon at the same time.

Ryan gives him a sideways glance. He looks a little pissed off. "Whatever you say."

Patrick pulls his lips in a tight line and reaches for a laundry basket. "I gotta get the load from the washer over there."

He walks over to Frank, ignoring Ryan's piercing stare. He feels like he just betrayed Ryan, but he pushes the feeling aside.

"Did you do anymore investigating?" Frank asks. His hands are entangled on a jammed zipper on a dingy prison uniform.

"Fuck investigating," Patrick groans.

*

"You think too much," Frank says. He's already licked his bowl clean, but Patrick's still poking and prodding at his stew.

"Maybe there's just a lot to think about." Patrick answers, grimacing down at his bowl.

Frank folds his hands together in his lap. "You know, Patrick, I've been in this prison for years, and I've seen all sorts of shit like this. Some people just have really ugly backstories, but they've got to accept it and move on. Same goes for whoever they're involved with, all their friends and enemies; they've got to move on, too."

He continues, "Some secrets weren't meant to be yours, Patrick. Sometimes, you're just not meant to get involved."

Patrick's silent for a while. "Jesus, Frank, how old are you? You're pulling some serious 'old man on the top of the mountain' shit on me right now."

Frank laughs. "The old man on top of the mountain never has real shit to say. I do. After nine long years, I have a lot of shit to tell people."

Patrick nods, "I'll be back. You can have my stew if you want." He pushes his bowl towards Frank and gets up.

Ryan and Brendon are seated in the back, and William's joined them again. They look put off, except for William, who tries to lighten the mood by laughing and talking too much.

Patrick hovers around them until he finally speaks up. "Sorry, Ryan."

Ryan looks up. He has a blank expression, but he slowly cracks into a smile. "There's nothing to be sorry about."

Patrick sits besides William and tries to take up as little space at the table as possible. Gabe suddenly walks up to them and presses up against William's arm as he takes a seat.

"Hey, babe," he wraps an arm around William, who pushes him off.

"Can you leave me alone?" William asks, eyes narrowed. "I'm not kidding, Saporta."

Gabe puts his arms up in a surrender. "Sorry, sorry."

Something flickers across his face. Patrick feels bad for him, but he doesn't say anything. He tries to remember what Frank told him, tries to think about how it's not his job to worry about Gabe, or Spencer raping Brendon, or anything that anyone at this table cries about when they get themself on alone. Whatever they can conjure up in their brain when they're etching numbers and symbols into their bunks, that shouldn't be of any concern to him.

But when he finally comes to, leaving the table and returning to where he sat across from Frank, he says, "I feel bad for all of them. Just because it's not my place to get involved doesn't change how sad it is."

Frank has nothing to say for the first time.

*

A guard sounds off a whistle after a short shift in the laundry room, and off Patrick goes into the crowd of orange jumpsuits. But someone pulls him aside where no one can see them. Patrick starts twisting and turning, pressing his elbows in their stomach until they grab his head and force him to look at them.

It's Spencer.

"Just come with me to my office," he mutters.

*

Brendon's sitting on Spencer's desk, the zipper on his uniform pulled halfway down his chest. Bruises fall down his sides and stain his collarbone. He lets out a loud gasp when he sees Patrick step in, wrists held tightly together by Spencer's meaty hands, but he doesn't say anything.

"I don't do drugs," Patrick suddenly says. He's looking at the both of them with fear in his eyes.

Spencer ignores him. "You're a really cute boy. Isn't he, Brendon?"

Brendon keeps his head down and mutters a soft "yes."

"I thought he could be a new addition to us, don't you think so?" Spencer wraps his fingers around Brendon's chin and pulls him up to face him. When he leans in for a kiss, Patrick looks away.

"I don't do drugs," he repeats. As long as he doesn't give Spencer the power to make him fail a drugs test, he's fine. That's what Pete told him, anyways.

Spencer reaches in a drawer and pulls out a ziploc bag. There's a wet paper towel in it, and Brendon's eyes widen.

He looks at Patrick. " _Run_ ," he mouths.

" _The door's locked_." Patrick points towards the door, and Brendon lets out a shaky breath. There are tears welling up in his eyes.

"Sir, please don't." He doesn't look at Spencer.

"You don't decide anything," Spencer slams a hand on Brendon's back.

"Please, I'll do whatever, just don't," He stops talking. It's then that Patrick realizes his lip is busted.

"You don't have to, Brendon." Patrick takes a hesitant step forward.

Spencer keeps his eyes trained on Brendon. "Will you stay the night here? In my office?"

Brendon closes his eyes and nods.

Spencer smiles and grabs Patrick's wrists again. "Then I guess your friend can leave."

Patrick takes one last look at Brendon before they leave the room.

He's crying.

*

Patrick can't look Ryan in the eye the next day. He hovers around the same washer as well as Frank instead, pretending to listen to him talk about all the injuries he's sustained.

"And you still smoke?" Patrick asks halfheartedly.

"Prison just troubles you, huh?" Frank says. "You're getting too involved with other people. Here," he reaches in his uniform and grabs some quarters. "Use these to call your family or whatever."

Patrick's taken aback. "Where did you get these?"

"People are stupid and leave change in their clothes," Frank motions towards the washer.

"I still can't take this." Patrick tries to hand the coins back to Frank. "You probably have people you have to call."

"I don't, actually." Frank laughs. "The only person I would've called is dead. Well, there's another person I probably would've called too, but I killed him."

"That's nothing to laugh about!" Patrick exclaims as he reluctantly shoves the quarters in his suit.

"Isn't there a saying like 'if you don't laugh, you'll cry?'" Frank says.

He's trying to joke around, he's even smiling and laughing, but Patrick sees something in his eyes. He looks like Gabe did when William pushed him away or how Brendon did when he took a deep breath and agreed to stay at Spencer's overnight.

Maybe he's not the only one getting too involved with other people. Everyone in this damn prison starts to become the same person after a while.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I'll start posting on Thursdays, if I keep up with this writing schedule. Most importantly, there is a MODERATELY GRAPHIC rape/sex scene. Just a heads up.

 

 

A guard slides a plate of food into Pete's cell. The meals in solitary confinement are worse than those in the cafeteria. Everything on his plate is a foreign object, so much so that he can't even tell if there's a piece of cabbage or if it's just pork that's hosting bacterial formation.

Not that he doesn't eat it.

When he's finished up his greasy vegetables and oddly green meats, he's back to staring at the ceiling. There's nothing to do in solitary confinement-well, that's the point actually; but it's still driving him up the walls. Prison is already a tough concept to chew. You're stuck in a cell with someone who either ignores you or fucks you, although Pete is blessed with neither, and you're forced to work and restructure yourself so you can fit back into society when you're released.

It's like purgatory. It's heaven or hell after all of this, and God, whoever they are, decides.

Not you.

*

Patrick slowly fingers the keys on the payphone. Frank is sitting at the nearest table, looking at him expectantly. It takes Patrick a good three minutes to remember his mom's number and it takes another two for him to work up the courage to dial it. He's glad no one else is in line for the phone, otherwise he'd probably have enough bruises to equal the quarters he has in his hand.

After three rings, his mom picks up. "Hello?" She sounds confused, and Patrick doesn't blame her. Some random number _did_ just call her. He can still remember telemarketers and charities phoning their house, back when he lived with his parents. His mother would always pick up and get pissed off when a thin metallic voice started talking about the sales at JcPenny, and his dad would just laugh at her reaction.

"Mom, it's me, Patrick." He says once he breaks out of his flashback. _Homesickness is a bitch_ , he thinks to himself.

She lets out a gasp followed by a string of breathy questions. "Patrick! How are you? Are you okay? How much is your bail again? Your dad's taking more hours down at the pharmacy; we'll work up enough money in no time-"

"Don't," Patrick interrupts her. There's an end to that sentence somewhere in his brain, but he's lost it already. He doesn't bother searching for it.

The lag delays her response for a few seconds. "You're being imprisoned for something you didn't do!"

"You're right." Patrick says. He waits for her answer but nothing comes, so he continues. "But you can always come see me in the visiting room."

"Then I will," she says without hesitation. "Today."

The line falls silent. Patrick stares at the phone for a few moments afterwards, a little pissed off at his mom. He did _not_ use Frank's shiny collection of quarters for a two minute conversation.

When he turns around, Frank's lazily eyeing him. He looks curious, but he doesn't say anything.

*

"You like that?" Spencer says.

He's got Brendon down on his knees, sucking him off. He bucks up into Brendon's mouth with a jagged rhythym, trying to brush past every tooth and down against his tongue. Brendon wants to throw up, but over the years he's learned to tame his gag reflex. Spencer took good note of that the first time it'd happened.

_"I hear you're the guy to go to," Brendon said. He leaned back against the door with his arms folded across his chest._

_Spencer smiled, but he didn't laugh. He leaned back in his chair and took in Brendon's appearance. He was young and pretty, big lips and a sturdy jaw. His hair flopped around his eyes whenever he moved and Spencer wanted to pull on each and every strand._

_"What do you want?" He finally asked._

_"My boyfriend really likes weed." Brendon replied, causing Spencer's smile to falter. "I thought I could get him something nice for his birthday. It's next week."_

_'He talks too much,' Spencer thought. He wanted to shut him up._

_"Well," Spencer pulled out a brown bag of neatly rolled joints and set them out on his desk. "How much do you have?"_

_"Oh." Brendon swallowed a lump in his throat. "Not much."_

_"Then I guess that limits your options." Spencer slid the bag off the desk and Brendon let his arms hang to his side._

_"You don't understand, he really needs it." He was desperate. Spencer liked the look of that. "He keeps having anxiety attacks and, just, please, sir."_

_Sir. Spencer really liked the sound of that. He also really liked the idea of kicking Brendon's broke ass out of his office, but he was too pretty._

_He wanted him._

_"You know what, take it." Spencer feigned a sympathetic look and put the bag up for grabs. "I'm a sucker for sob stories."_

_"Thank you!" Brendon exclaimed. "It means a lot to me."_

_Spencer furrows his eyebrows and pulls out of Brendon's mouth. He strokes himself lazily and massages Brendon's jaw with his other hand. Of all times, he decides to be nice now._

_"You're so pretty," he breathes._

Brendon just stares back up at him. His eyes are wet with tears about to spill over. He must've been too rough with him.

"I'm sorry." He says.

Brendon laughs and puts his lips back on Spencer's cock.

"No," he pushes Brendon off. "I want to fuck you. Get on the desk."

_"I need to see you in my office," Spencer said._

_Brendon was in the middle of drilling a hole into a deformed table. He looked over at Pete, who was too busy exchanging a tin of nails with another inmate. He wouldn't notice if Brendon skipped out on work for a bit-not that he had a choice._

_"Yes, sir." Brendon nodded and followed him out of the workshop._

Spencer's watching Brendon work in a third finger. "I think you're ready."

Brendon doesn't say anything, just leans forward on his forearms and hoists his ass higher into the air. Spencer aligns himself with Brendon's hole and pushes in. He's loose; he's always so goddamn _tight_ , but his muscles don't clench around Spencer like they usually do.

"Your boyfriend is a greedy bastard." He stills, not moving an inch deeper.

Brendon's head perks up at that. "Sir, I-"

"Don't speak." Spencer raises his right hand up and slams it onto Brendon's right asscheek.

_"But sir, you said I could have it for free!" Brendon cried out._

_"Yeah, well, I'm changing my mind," Spencer rolled his eyes and propped his feet up on his desk._

_"I'll tell someone," Brendon threatened, pointing a finger at him. "I'll fucking tell someone and you'll lose your job."_

_"And they'll have your boy toy take a drug test," Spencer answered simply. "Your boyfriend is a greedy bastard. You shouldn't try to please him so much."_

_"Don't say shit about him." Brendon said through gritted teeth. A vein was popping out of his neck, tracing the sweat dripping down his skin. "You don't know anything!"_

_"You don't get to decide who says what anymore," Spencer laughed. "I think you realize it now."_

_"Please, sir, I don't have money-" Brendon started, but Spencer interrupted him._

_"I know." He stood up and wandered towards him. "But you're really pretty."_

Spencer moans. Brendon's so gorgeous like this, spread out on his table with sweat dripping down his back. He always shuts up when Spencer fucks him.

He doesn't make a single noise.

_"Get off of me!" Brendon yelled. There were tears streaming down his cheeks. "I don't want to, please, don't make me!"_

_Spencer backhanded him, reddening his face with a prominent handprint. Brendon closed his mouth and just laid there stupidly, looking up at Spencer with wet eyes._

_"You know, if you would just shut the fuck up, you'd be even prettier." Spencer whispered like he was scared someone would hear him._

_Brendon wanted to die._

He finally comes deep inside of Brendon, letting out a string of groans and incoherent words. He flips Brendon over onto his back and leans down to suck him off. Suddenly, Brendon's hands wrap around his head and he's being pulled up to be face to face with him.

"I'm fine, sir." Brendon says. His eyes are still wet, so Spencer gently swipes a finger underneath his waterline. "You don't have to."

Spencer wraps his arms around Brendon's waist and presses his head into the crook of his neck. "I want to," he breaths out.

Brendon doesn't say anything, so he continues. "But I won't."

Brendon wants to tell him that it doesn't make him any less of a scumbag, but he bites his tongue, just like he does when he's safely back in his cell, holding Ryan's hand like it's the last time he'll ever see him, because he's never too sure.

But it's a weekend, at least, according to the calendar hanging in Spencer's office. Brendon has Ryan all to himself with no interruptions, not Spencer nor the must of the woodshop. They're free to do whatever they want-Brendon's free to do whatever he wants.

He pulls Ryan's hand, tugging him closer, and plants a soft kiss on his lips. Pain can't trump love if Brendon won't let it.

*

Thanks to the weekend, Patrick takes it upon himself to sleep as much as possible.

He's sound asleep in Pete's bunk when the cell door bursts open. He wakes up in sleepy haze, grabbing at the stale matress for no reason other than the fact that it smells like Pete. It's a little creepy to be so comfortable on the bed where your friend jacked off a few weeks ago, but he tries not to think anything of it.

There's a guard standing in the doorway when Patrick finally casts a glance towards the door.

"You got someone in the visiting room," the officer says. His nametag reads 'J. Walker,' and Patrick wants to laugh at the irony.

The hallways look smaller now. The dimly lit corridors connect to each other, some leading into peculiarly dark offices and others blocked off by big metal doors. The visiting room is located near the front of the building, which they finally arrive at after what feels like a million flights of stairs.

The room Patrick's ushered into is pure white, with the only splashes of color being the black chair in front of a brown platform and the window, along with the black phone hanging off of the edge of it.

His mother's on the other side of the window, hands pressed up against her mouth. She looks like she's been crying. Patrick wants to tell her it's okay, but he knows she won't listen. It's understandable-if _she_ were in prison Patrick would shed a few tears, too.

"Patrick," she breathes down the line, and Patrick wants to hug her. She's just on the other side of the window, a glass barrier that no one could even try to shatter. It makes him want to cry. "You look so thin! Have you been eating?"

He winces at that. He really hasn't, now that he thinks about it. "Hard to eat when it's not your cooking," he laughs.

God, he misses his mom's infamous peach cobbler. Every holiday she'd hold it over their heads like a dog treat dangling in front of a golden retriever, taunting them with it until they just _had_ to eat their collard greens. His dad would smile at them and stick his fork in the dessert, taking just an increment of the whipped creme and gooey peaches, and Patrick and his siblings would collectively groan in frustration.

"Oh, Patrick," his mother sighs. "You still need to eat."

 _I really don't_ , he thinks as his palms brush against his stomach when he shifts uncomfortably in his chair. This is when Pete would probably laugh at him and try to say something encouraging, and maybe Patrick would tell him about his mom's peach cobbler. Maybe.

Patrick hopes he's doing okay in solitary confinement. The thought of Pete jacking off suddenly slips into his mind and his cheeks heat up.

"Are you okay?" His mother presses a small hand onto the window like if she pushes hard enough she can break it. "Do you have a fever?"

Patrick laughs, trying to get the image off his mind. "No, I'm fine."

"I've heard how bad they treat their inmates," she says, and Patrick laughs again. Who's they? The system that let Spencer rape Brendon and feeds them the stalest bread possible?

Because, yeah, they suck.

"If you got sick, you'd," she pauses. Her head falls down into her hands. Dammit, she's crying again. "You'd die," she finally finishes and wipes her tears away. "I'm sorry, honey, you probably don't want to see my cry. It's already bad enough as it is."

Patrick doesn't respond.

"Well, uh," she thinks of anything to say, "how's your cellmate? Does he," she shuts her mouth and motions for Patrick to answer. He's glad he doesn't have to hear the ending to her second question.

"He's fine, actually." Patrick says. "We get along pretty well. And he doesn't, for the record."

His mom nods and glances somewhere behind her. Patrick can't see too much of the world on the other side of the glass, but that's how it's supposed to be. Inmates don't deserve to be let back into the _real_ world so easily. That's something Pete would say, laughing lazily and tossing and turning in his bed for emphasis.

"I have to go." His mother frowns. "Kevin has a recital. I'll tell him to visit you."

Patrick feels something tighten in his chest at the sound of his brother's name. He wonders how _he's_ taking the news of Patrick's imprisonment. "Okay. Bye, mom."

Her eyes start tearing up again. "I love you," she says, swiftly getting out of her chair and walking away. The officer, the J. Walker guy, starts walking towards him. Patrick hears his footsteps get even closer, so he loosen his grip around the phone.

"I love you, too," he says to no one.

*

Patrick doesn't tell anyone about his visit from his mom for the next couple of days. He eats alone, and Frank respects his decision. He doesn't even talk to him in the laundry room.

Now he has time to think about his mother's tears and the sweetness in her words when she said she loved him or even when she'd said Kevin might visit. Of course he won't visit. Hell, _she_ might not visit again. His family might not even want anything to do with him when he gets released.

Then he'll be alone, once and for all. He might've never felt like he belonged under their roof or in his apartment or in that God forsaken bank, but at least they made him feel safe. They let him pretend.

They were his life support, and now they can rip out the plug.

*

When an officer leads him back to his cell, leaving him to breathe too hard and think too much in Pete's bunk, Patrick lets himself cry. The tears stain the exact place where Pete laid his head just a week ago-

Patrick sucks in a breath. It's been a week, hasn't it?

Then the cell door opens again with a soft creak. Patrick sits up and faces the wall, his back defiantly facing the open door. This is how Pete must've felt the day they met. There's someone to listen, now, someone he can finally talk to about _everything_.

Now he understands.

Then the cell door closes. Five words echo and bounce off the walls.

"It's good to be back."

Silence sets in, and Patrick can hear him climbing up into the bunk. He remains facing the wall. He doesn't say a word, keeping his lips tightened in a straight line.

"What's wrong?" He asks.

Pete's back, and he's lending an ear. Pete's back, and he'll listen; finally, after seven days, someone's here to listen.

Patrick takes a deep breath, accumulating everything that's happened this week, from Brendon's tears to Frank's sad, sad face and even his mother's own, and he opens his mouth.

"I think," he pauses for a brief second. "I think I've been thinking too much lately."

There's a good few minutes of silence before Pete responds.

"Haven't we all?"

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't post yesterday because of the situation in Ferguson. I thought it'd be disrespectful of me to update a story set in a prison when people are unjustly being arrested and generally unjust things regarding the law are occurring. Anyways, I hope you all enjoy this chapter! <3

"You're not supposed to have that," a guard whispers, his narrow eyes peering into Frank's cell through the slit.

Frank looks down at the photograph in his hand. He really should stop looking at it. It just reminds him of everything that's happened.

"But I'll let you keep it." The guard walks away without another word.

Frank folds the thin polaroid back up and sticks it underneath his collar. What he did was right. He got revenge.

But maybe revenge isn't always worth it in the end.

*

Pete's too close for comfort. Patrick can feel his breath on his elbow as he recounts everything that's happened in his head, even though he's just told Pete. He's light-headed and drowsy, absentmindedly drawing circles into the mattress with his fingernail.

"Have you ever thought that nothing about you is real?" Pete suddenly asks, interrupting the silence. "That you're just layers and layers of facades and faces and there's nothing underneath it?"

Patrick lets out a small laugh and stops tracing patterns into the bunk. "I'm pretty sure you're real."

"That's not what I meant and you know it," Pete says. "Existence isn't a synonym for reality. Lies exist but they're not the truth." He points at himself. "I exist, but maybe nothing about me is true."

Patrick lets that sink in. He thinks about his response for a long time before he finally says it. "What _is_ true, then?"

Pete grabs Patrick's hand, and it makes Patrick's face burn. "This is true."

Patrick pulls his hand away and scrambles down into his bunk. This time, Pete doesn't go after him.

*

They don't talk about it the next day, and to be completely honest, it's driving Patrick up the wall. The elephant isn't just in the room, it's following him down every fucking hallway and shitting right alongside him in the bathroom. Pete won't even _look_ at him the same way he did last night. He just smiles and grins like he did before, baring too much teeth and his eyes crinkling too much at the corners. Patrick wishes he could find it annoying but it just makes his heart beat faster.

And against all odds and fragments of logic left in his brain, he just _has_ to ask someone for help.

"Ryan, what was you and Brendon's relationship like before it was a," he laughs awkwardly, "a relationship?"

"Patrick, I don't know why I'm your go-to guy for relationship advice." Ryan shakes his head and starts the dryer.

"Okay, William. What was you and your wife's relationship like before you started dating?" Patrick turns to face him.

"Well, we were friends, I guess." William says. "I just asked her out one day."

"What he's saying is that you should just kiss Pete already," Ryan laughs and pulls wet towels out of the washer. If the guards were paying any attention they'd realize he was pretty much the only one actually working. "I'm an expert in the history of William Beckett, and I can tell you, he just kissed her out of the blue one day and they ended up getting married."

"And our wedding was beautiful," William adds dreamily. "We got married on the beach."

Ryan rolls his eyes and grabs an armful of towels, tossing them into another dryer. "Patrick, do you have any dark clothes you need to wash? After I start this dryer I'm washing mine."

"Yeah, I, uh, forgot about the load over there." He says sheepishly, spinning around on his heel. "I'll go get them."

Frank's hovering around the dryer, but he's not making any move to open it. He stands still with his back leaning against the edge of a washer, staring at the machine but not really _looking_ at it. Patrick furrows his eyebrows and pulls open the cover to the laundry chute, letting a small bundle of clothes out.

"You okay, Frank?" Patrick asks, and Frank snaps his head up.

He looks around and shifts his weight around uncomfortably. "Yeah, I've just a got a lot on mind."

Patrick hurls the clothes into a green basket. "Like what?"

Frank laughs and folds his arms across himself. "Worry about yourself. I saw you fretting about something over there."

"How come you always just _conveniently_ see me talking about stuff?" Patrick asks, wrapping his small arms around the basket. He nods in Ryan's direction, beckoning Frank to follow him.

Frank shrugs. "Coincidence."

Ryan lets out a strangled noise when he sees Frank headed his way. He nervously reaches for the clothes in Patrick's basket and throws them into the dryer, turning the washer on before William even realizes Frank's there.

"Jesus, you scared me!" William exclaims, laughing awkwardly.

Patrick fakes a laugh too, but he stops when he doesn't hear Frank respond. He turns back around and he's zoned out again, staring at a patch of paint on the wall. Patrick waves a hand in front of his face.

"Sorry, what?" Frank says.

Ryan looks like he's on the verge of having a heart attack. He's seen stuff like that in movies, symptoms of serial killers and cannibals. Willy Wonka did shit like that in the remake, too, and it freaked him out to no end. It's no different in real life either. Even _William's_ looking at Frank like he'd just seen a ghost.

"I don't think it's just 'something on your mind,'" Patrick finally speaks up just to break the silence, his eyes narrowed at Frank.

*

"Oh no!" Brendon groans, throwing his calloused hands up in frustration. He has a hammer in one hand, and he reluctantly puts it down. "Sorry, man, wasn't trying to point it at you or anything."

Pete ignores him and reaches for the hammer, and he swears he can hear Brendon take a small breath. He grabs some nails and leans over the table to get closer to the wooden chair and starts hammering a leg onto the seat, pointedly facing away from Brendon.

"Yeah, silent treatment, okay." Brendon scoffs.

"I'm sorry," Pete says, readjusting his grip on the hammer. "I shouldn't have said anything about Spencer."

It's the most sincere thing Pete's said to Brendon, and they'd known each other for nearly a decade. Sure, they've never been the best of friends, but it still touches his heart.

"It's just a touchy subject," Brendon says quietly. "It's gotten worse. He's actually showing some empathy now. I mean, he won't stop doing it, but he's nicer about it."

Pete sighs. "Don't tell me you're actually-"

"I'm not." Brendon says firmly. "What Spencer's doing will never be okay."

"Then tell someone," Pete's on the verge of begging. "You don't have to go through with it."

"I'm scared he'll go for Ryan next, then." Brendon says. "He'll make him take a drug test and get him sentenced to more years. Or he'll-" He casts his eyes downward. "I don't want him to go through what I'm going through."

He looks like he's on the verge of tears, so Pete doesn't press any further.

After what feels like a year of silence, a guard sounds off the whistle and announces that it's time for lunch. Pete's almost out the door before Brendon catches up with him.

"I'm sorry, too." He says. "I never meant to hurt sales or anything, I just needed the money."

"You don't get it do you?" Pete shakes his head. "That's not what I'm pissed off about. Well, _I'm_ not pissed off anymore, but it'll suck to be you once your sentence is up."

Brendon cocks an eyebrow and tries to come up with something to say, but Pete's already dissapeared into the hallway.

*

Pete looks utterly terrified at dinner.

Patrick had suggested that they sit with Frank and Pete relucantly agreed. He never thought about what it'd be like being up close and personal with _Frank Iero_ , but he certainly didn't think that he would just stare at Patrick's meatloaf while taking small bites of his bread.

"Frank, you're not even eating like usual!" Patrick snaps his fingers in front of Frank's eyes. _Does he have a death wish?_ Pete thinks, trying not to look at the scene.

"It gets like this sometimes," Franks says defeatedly. "I've just been thinking a lot."

"About what?" Patrick asks. Frank always references some traumatic incident and, to be frank, it's piqued Patrick's curiosity.

"You really do get too involved in everyone's problems," Frank balls his fingers into a fist around his fork. "No one owes you their backstory. I don't want to talk about it, and if I wanted to talk about it, I would've told the God damn therapist here. Not you."

Pete finally allows himself to look Frank in the eye. "There's no need to snap at someone who was just trying to help you."

"I don't need a lesson on anger issues from the guy who got himself in solitary for pointing a drill at someone!" Frank spits. "And asking me about my fucking dead best friend isn't help. You should focus on helping this guy not end up like him," he motions at Pete.

Patrick swallows. He's never seen Frank this angry before.

"Well, I'm going to go see what Gabe's up to." Pete works up enough courage to shoot Frank a glare before getting up.

Frank lets out a big breath. "I'm sorry, Patrick."

"No, you're right. I should just mind my own business," Patrick says. "It's really rude of me."

Frank laughs, making Patrick jump. "I just needed a reason for Pete to leave. I trust you to know what happened. I don't trust Pete."

Patrick nods, although he's not entirely convinced that Frank was just putting on an act.

"I just need to tell someone before I," he pauses. "I don't know. Before I lose my mind in here, although I think it's mostly gone already. I forget a lot of things, like I've kind of forgotten my mom's face, even though I lived with here and-dammit, that's got nothing to do with it."

"A long time ago, I was in a band. We played small shows and no one really knew us, but it was a lot of fun. The lead singer, Gerard," Frank stumbles on his name, "was the most amazing person. He, I don't know, I can't really explain how great he was. But I loved him. And, for the record, we were the best couple known to man; I'm just gonna put it out there."

He laughs sadly, and Patrick can already see the teardrops forming in his eyes.

"His brother Mikey, our bassist, wasn't as amazing. I guess it didn't run in the family. Anyways, he liked drinking. A lot. So one day he had this brilliant idea to just get drunk off his ass and drive around the neighborhood at night. No one objected because it was _him_ , the same guy who's blood alcohol level was once, like, twice the limit and he still managed to drive us out to the mall and back without killing anyone."

"So half an hour later we see some headlights flash in the window at the front of the house, and Gerard went outside to make sure Mikey made it home intact. And I guess Mikey didn't see him." Frank looks away from Patrick's heavy gaze.

"He hit him with the car. Hard. Gerard just fell to the ground. All I could see was red because my boyf-Gerard was just laying on the fucking pavement, limp and lifeless. I grabbed this heavy duty flashlight near the front door and I went up to the driver's side and beat Mikey's skull in. I killed him. And Ray, our lead guitarist, had witnessed the last few seconds of everything. He was the one to dial 911, and I don't blame him."

Frank takes a shaky breath. Patrick wants to reach across the table and wipe away the tears forming in his eyes, even though he knows Frank won't let them fall.

"That's the truth. I was convicted of voluntary manslaughter, not first degree murder. Everyone just likes to make up their own stories and rumors of why I'm here, and I don't want to correct anyone," Frank says. "Because the truth, the real truth, is much worse than anything they can think of."

Patrick's heart sinks as the guards start whistling and ushering inmates out of the cafeteria. He doesn't wait for Pete, but Frank rushes to tell him one last thing before they're out in the hallway.

"It would've been his thirty seventh birthday today. Everytime it rolls around I start thinking about...it."

He looks like he's in physical pain just mentioning it.

*

Patrick spends the rest of his evening thinking about everything Frank said. He wonders what it'd be like if he lost someone that close to him, and if he'd kill whoever did it. Probably not, but the thought still remains in the back of his mind.

He doesn't realize he's staring of into space until Pete pinches his arm.

"What the fuck, man?" Patrick nearly kicks Pete off his bunk.

"You're turning into Iero," Pete laughs.

Patrick glares at him, even though he knows he shouldn't be angry. Pete doesn't know what happened and Patrick won't tell him. He must be the one person Frank's ever told by choice, and that's a level of trust he refuses to turn on.

"I'm sorry I left you alone with him," Pete apologizes, crawling closer to Patrick so he can rest his chin on his thigh. "Especially when he was angry."

Patrick's barely listening. All he can think about is how Pete's head is literally in his lap and how he _still_ won't say anything about the previous night.

"Please, Pete." Patrick doesn't know why he's whispering. He lets his fingers slide onto Pete's cheek, thumbing over his jawline. "Stop making it like this."

"Making it like what?" Pete asks. His breath ghosts over Patrick's leg and it makes him melt a little more. "Like this?" He places a hand on Patrick's fingers, holding them in a loose grip.

Patrick gives him a small nod, not pulling away from Pete's hold. "What if it's not supposed to be like this? What if we should stop?"

"Do _you_ think we should?" Pete pulls his head off Patrick's thigh and rests his cheek on his chest instead.

"I don't know what I think." Patrick says.

Pete's lips tighten in a straight line, but he doesn't say anything.

They stay like that for a while before Pete suddenly gets up and climbs back up into his bunk. He doesn't tell Patrick goodnight, but this time, Patrick's okay with that.

"Tell me when you do know." Pete whispers.

*

"There's someone here for you," a guard with a gruff voice says. It's obvious that Frank's been crying, but he doesn't say anything.

Frank still manages to let out a laugh. "No one could possibly be here for me. You've got the wrong guy."

The guard clears his throat and glances at the sheet of paper in his hands. "Are you Frank Iero?"

Frank stops smiling. "Well, damn. I didn't expect you to be able to read, too."

"Get up." The guard pulls Frank by his forearms, tugging him out of the cell. Frank's always had a sharp tongue, and being locked up for nine years didn't change anything about that.

But he's at a loss of words for the first time in his life when he sees who's on the other side of the glass window.

He's got blonde hair now. He looks smaller than he ever has, drawn in on himself. His black dress shirt hugs his body, emphasizing how skinny he's gotten. There are faint traces of dark circles under his eyes, which are still as hazel as ever, although they look duller under the visiing room's lighting.

But he's still Gerard. He looks like a ghost of who he used to be, but he's not dead, and that's what's most important. That's what Frank tells himself, anyway.

"Happy birthday," Frank breathes. It comes out like a question.

"Thanks." His voice has barely changed.

"I thought you were dead." Frank says.

"Well, you thought wrong," Gerard sounds like he's trying to be upbeat, but it still feels like he's reading a eulogy at a funeral. "I was in a brief coma. It lasted about a month, but you were already here when I woke up."

"And no one wanted to tell me," Frank laughs.

"Everyone considered it, but no one really wanted to talk to the guy who killed Mikey." Gerard says, and Frank winces.

"I did it for you, you know that right?" Frank leans forward.

Gerard shakes his head. "What are you talking about?"

"I thought he killed you!" Frank yells. He doesn't care about the guard watching him. The man he loves, who he thought was dead this whole time, is just now visiting him. He feels betrayed. He's not sure if he wants to punch Gerard or kiss him, bruise his eye or his lips. "I thought you were dead so I killed him!"

Gerard closes his eyes. "Frank, you don't have to-"

"Listen to me." Frank snarls. "After nine years, you never thought about checking on me? Telling me you were alive? I've been beating myself down this time of year, every year-you know what? Every goddamn time of the year, I think about _you_. But you never gave me the time of day!"

"You don't know anything about how I feel or what I think!" Gerard says through gritted teeth. "You killed my brother, Frank! If I were dead, it _still_ wouldn't change that! One day I'm getting hit by a car and the next day, the next time I wake up I mean, my boyfriend's in prison and my brother's dead. And _you_ were the one that did it! I wanted to talk to you but no one would let me-I've been staying with my parents because I can't even get myself up in the morning anymore! You don't know shit about what it's been like!"

Frank doesn't respond. He expects Gerard to leave any second now, but he doesn't.

"I'm sorry," Frank apologizes. "I didn't think about any of that. I should've."

Gerard laughs. "I still love you, you know that? I love you."

Frank smiles, his heart beating slowly in his chest. "I love you, too."

"We're going to get through this." Gerard says. "We're going to get through."

*

Frank uses the dim lighting from his cell's window to look at his old polaroid of Gerard. The picture's faded and the paper's crumpled up, but he still looks amazing in it. Gerard had given it to Frank the day before he left to Italy to visit family on his mother's side for nearly two months, and Frank kept it on his person at all times ever since.

He flips the picture over and re-reads what's written on the back.

_See you soon!_

_Love, Gerard_

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's a little shorter than usual, but not by much. Also, due to stupid Texas weather and storms, it's going to take me longer to write Three Years. :( If I miss in an update in these coming weeks, don't think I've abandoned this story.

"Can someone get him off of me? I think I smell a dead rat in his mouth." William whines, struggling to push Gabe off his chest.

  
"I told you to tell him off when he first laid his head down on you, but you wouldn't listen," Ryan hums, patiently waiting for Brent to release his death grip on the remote.  
According to Ryan, the worst thing about being in prison is that everyone's hogging the TV in the common room. He can deal with inedible food and being pushed around, but the moment someone changes the channel to food network, he's got a problem.

  
"Brent, are you just dead set on watching Chopped or can you please switch back to MTV?" Ryan groans. He was watching a Catfish re-run before Brent had barged in and stole the remote when he wasn't looking.

  
"I'm hungry," Brent replies, not looking away from the set.

  
Ryan rolls his eyes and walks back to where William's spread out on the couch. Gabe's now on the floor, soundly asleep on the dirty carpet. A guard eyes him curiously through the window. It's a privilege to be in this room, and Gabe's just wasting it by sleeping.

  
The door swings open and Brendon walks in, a tray of unfinished beef in his hands. He nods at Ryan and makes his way to him, accidentally stepping on Gabe's back in the process.

  
"Hey!" Gabe exclaims, slapping Brendon's shin before falling back asleep. William rolls his eyes and sits up on the couch, giving Brendon room to sit.

  
"I thought you were banned from the common room after your run-in with Pete." Ryan says.

  
"Temporarily," Brendon amends and takes a bite of his food. "Thanks for abandoning me in the cafeteria while I _was_ banned though. I was forced to watch Pete and Patrick make heart eyes at each other and talk via telepathy. It's freaky."

  
"That's just how they are," William laughs. "Speaking of Pete and Patrick, why aren't they here?"

  
"Pete's still under, like, probation or something like that." Brendon explains through a mouthful of beef. "He can't come in here for another week or so."

  
"Then what about Patrick?" William asks.

  
Brendon quirks an eyebrow. "Have you not been paying attention? Patrick's glued to his hip, so he won't be coming in here any time soon."

  
Brent suddenly stands up and tosses the remote aside. He says something about going to the bathroom, and Ryan nearly jumps for joy. He scrambles to the couch and grabs the remote, flipping back to MTV.

  
"Dammit!" He exclaims.

  
"What?" Brendon says worriedly, walking over to him.

  
"Catfish is already over." Ryan throws his hands up in the air dejectedly and William bursts out in laughter.

  
*  
Patrick's leaning against a washer and listening to Ryan's rant on Brent Wilson. Apparently, he shoved Chopped re-runs down Ryan's throat. Patrick thinks he was just trying to help him gain some weight. The boy's legs are practically a pair of chopsticks.

  
"And that's why I don't trust Brent," Ryan concludes, fixing a t-shirt that's inside out. "He hogs the TV remote and makes me miss my favorite shows."

  
"Shut up," William says jokingly. "Catfish is _not_ one of your favorite shows."

  
"Since when have you been an expert on my TV habits?" Ryan laughs.

  
"Since you marathoned old Nickelodeon shows on my netflix account." William replies.

  
Ryan shrugs. "I stick to the classics."

  
William ignores him and unloads the dryer. "I'm getting the distinct vibe that you don't even like MTV. No one can go from Avatar to Awkward without getting whiplash."

  
Patrick chuckles at that. "He's right."

  
"You're taking his side now?" Ryan exclaims. "I'm the victim here!"

  
"Maybe Brent just wanted to stare at Ted Allen; you don't know what he's into." A voice booms from behind them.

  
It's Frank, paler than he's ever been with a little more stubble prickling his chin. He smiles at all of them, but especially at Patrick. His arms surround a basket of wet clothes that he dumps into the dryer William's been conjoined to for the past hour.

  
"You can't just sneak up on people like that." Patrick says. Ryan and William, however, are getting used to seeing Frank show up out of the blue when they're around Patrick, so they just shrug it off.

  
"No one can dictate when and where I appear." Frank retorts, turning the dryer on.

  
"And you said you weren't the old man on top of the mountain," Patrick laughs. Frank just beams at him again before returning his attention to the machine.

  
William raises an eyebrow. "You guys have got some weird inside jokes."

  
Patrick makes a noise in response, although no one's sure what it's supposed to mean. "Speaking of inside jokes," he walks closer to Frank and whispers, "are you feeling better?"

Frank coughs. He's not telling anyone about Gerard. Gerard's sudden re-appearance feels sacred to him for some reason, like a dream, and he's scared he'll wake up if he says a word about it.

"Yeah." Frank says. "It's usually just his birthday that gets me down."

Patrick glances behind him and sees that Ryan and William have floated to the other side of the room. He lets out a sigh of relief. "If he were alive, I don't think he'd want you to feel so sad."

Frank wants to laugh at that.

"Yeah, I guess you're right."

*

Pete and Patrick are biting at their chicken when Joe stands up on a table across the cafeteria. A few guards jump towards him, but he makes weird gestures at them and tells them to calm down. They reluctantly stand back and watch him with amused expressions on their faces and handcuffs in their hands.

"Everyone! I have an announcement to make!" He yells.

Nearly all of the inmates keep their backs turned on him. With an audience of about five people, he continues.

"I'm being released tomorrow, and so I'm going to be handing out free drinks at my bar, Angels and Kings, tomorrow." A smirk dances on his face. "That's all."

"Like anyone here will be able to attend!" The guard nearest him barks. "Now sit down!"

He hesitantly does so and the cafeteria gets louder. Everyone's grumbling, talking about locks and keys and schedules. Pete's eyes widen.

"Shit." He says under his breath.

"What?" Patrick asks. Pete looks like he's just seen a ghost.

"Sometimes the people here try to schedule," Pete ducks his head closer to the table, "prison breaks. It always starts with someone being released."

"So we'll be able to leave tomorrow?" Patrick asks hopefully.

"Do you want to be in here longer?" Pete deadpans. "Prison breaks are never successful; remember that."

Patrick nods, his fingers tightening around his fork. He's never been too good at lying, but he keeps his lips drawn in and controls his breathing.

He just wants to see his mom again.

*

"Are you participating in the prison break, Pete?" Brendon whispers in the woodshop. He's not doing too much work today, Pete's noticed.

"Hell no." Pete snorts. "Are you?"

Brendon waits a few seconds before giving him a shy nod.

"Why?" Pete tries to keep his voice down.

"For obvious reasons," Brendon rolls his eyes. 

"Does Ryan know?" Pete asks.

"Yeah. He's doing it, too," Brendon says.

Pete puts his hammer down. "Listen, you can't do the prison break."

Brendon furrows his eyebrows. "Why?"

"Because it's dangerous!" Pete says. "You're going to die out there!"

"How do you know that?" Brendon mumbles.

"Because the moment you landed me in here everyone on the streets has been looking for you." Pete hisses. "We all had our suspicions about you, and they're going to kill you once they see the guy who threw the only fucking drug dealer in town under the bus."

"What the hell are you talking about?" Brendon growls. "I didn't tell the cops about you!"

"Then what are you in for, Brendon?" Pete balls his hands into fists.

"I sold the drugs you had me deliver," Brendon confesses. "For cheaper, too. And when the cops caught me, I pretended I was the real drug dealer. Not you."

Pete's expression softens. "You lied? For me?"

"Don't flatter yourself," Brendon laughs. "But yeah. I didn't know you were harboring a grudge against me because you thought I'd betrayed you or whatever."

"Well, it's still not safe for you to go out there now." Pete says. "I've got to make a couple calls before you do."

Brendon smiles.

*

Patrick practically wakes up in an adrenaline rush. He nervously chatters about anything he can think of at breakfast. Pete gives him odd looks between bites of toast, but he doesn't question it. Patrick tries to make eye contact with all the big inmates, like that'll give him some sense of instruction.

Unfortunately, it still doesn't prepare him for when the guards sound the whistle and all hell breaks loose in the cafeteria.

"Stay close to me," Pete says, but Patrick ignores him and runs. He stays behind a group of what he believes are thieves for a good five minutes, but Pete catches him eventually.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Pete screams. People start pushing past them, elbowing Pete in the side on accident.

"I want to see my parents again, Pete." Patrick cries. "I want to see my family."

A group of guards burst out from an office and start tackling inmates to the tile floor. Pete pulls Patrick by the wrist to the other end of the hallway, even through Patrick's resistance.

Finally, Patrick brings his hand down on Pete's arm, and it's the final straw.

"They're not coming back for you, Patrick!" Pete yells. "You're life is here now! You don't get to choose which side of the bars you're on, okay? You're _here_ and you're family's not, and you're going to have to deal with it."

Patrick just stares at him and doesn't make any move to respond. He hears footsteps coming towards them. He closes his eyes and holds onto Pete's hand even tighter.

*

"What's happening?" Gerard asks, looking back towards the door. He can hear the commotion, even through the thick walls.

"Oh," Frank laughs, "some people wanted to start a prison break."

"You say that like it's such a normal thing!" Gerard smiles.

"Well, it is." Frank says.

He suddenly realizes how different his world is from Gerard's. They're too far apart now, and it breaks his heart.

Gerard suggests something about conjugal visiting laws, and Frank's grounded back to earth.

"Definitely," he replies.

Gerard laughs. "Next time."

"Definitely next time," Frank reiterates with a smile.

Maybe they're not so far apart after all.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise, bitch. I bet you thought you'd seen the last of me.
> 
> No, but seriously, guys. It's almost been a year, and this story was really close to being abandoned. But thanks to all the asks you guys have sent me on tumblr (www.wentzedrine.tumblr.com btw) and the help of one of my friends, my will to write Three Years is back. I've come up with some great ideas, and I'm excited to show you all. 
> 
> Thank you so much for continuing to support this story.

_Uncle Mateo's garage was a reserved space. The room was always dimly lit and the air clotted with smoke. Gabe had seen a few of his older cousins sneak off after dinner with their lips pressed in a thin line, crumpled dollar bills and cigarettes hanging out of their pockets._

_Family parties were weird on his father's side._

_Once, Gabe caught sight of a Menthols box hanging off the edge of a offee table in the living room. He was sure the adults wouldn't notice if he pocketed one-his cousins had done it all the time. All his uncles and aunts were in the kitchen anyway, and he was the only kid dumb enough to stick in the living room. His cousins were probably out on the patio or swimming in Uncle Mateo's pool. The house was full of opportunities, but Gabe didn't find any of them more appealing than that pack of menthols._

_He glanced around him. The room was clear of anyone to tell him "no." He reached over the emerald couch and grabbed two cigarettes, shoving them in his front pocket._

_Now he needed somewhere to go. He remembered Nicolas and Florencia, his twin niece and nephew, went out to the front yard to play with some Hot Wheels. He couldn't smoke up the bathroom or any of the other rooms either._

_But he knew there was one room that was always smoked up._

_The garage._

_He made a smooth walk to the other side of the house and tiptoed into the laundry room. He latched onto the doorknob leading into the garage and slowly turned, peeking into the sliver of room he could see._

_No one was there._

_He quickly shut the door behind him, fishing the menthols out of his pocket. He looked them up and down before realizing he'd forgotten a lighter._

_"Shit," Gabe breathed, looking around the garage for one. The room already smelled like smoke-Uncle Mateo had to have one lying around somewhere._

_He looked under the fold-out tables and rummaged through the drawers leaning against the wall. He peered into the loads of cardboard boxes lying in the corner. He shuffled through a pile of jackets and coats on a dusty desk, checking their pockets._

_He turned up empty handed, although he kept some of the dollar bills he found._

_He was considering swiping some twigs from the front yard and sparking a fire like a caveman when a low, rumbling voice echoed in the room._

_"What are you looking for, Gabriel?"_

_Gabe bit his lip and turned around, coming face to face with Uncle Mateo. His uncle smiled at him and nodded, a cigarette between his lips and a Corona in his hand._

_"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have come in," Gabe started._

_"You didn't answer my question." Uncle Mateo sat on the wooden table. "What are you looking for? Your parents don't do well with lying."_

_Gabe hesitated before pulling the menthols out of his pocket and setting them down on the table. He didn't say anything._

_"Oh," his uncle nodded again. "You were looking for a lighter?"_

_Gabe nodded back at him._

_"What, you don't speak now?" Uncle Mateo laughed. "Huh? ¿Puedes hablar Español?"_

_"Un poquito," Gabe quietly replied. "Entiendo mas de hablo."_

_"I see." His uncle reached into his pocket and tossed a lighter into Gabe' s hands. "Light up."_

_Gabe looked at him in shock. He picked up one of the cigarettes and stuck it between his lips, lighting the end. He took a small hit before coughing violently._

_"Ay, you don't know how to breathe now either?" His uncle asked, patting his back with a small laugh. "¿No sabes nada?"_

_Gabe tightened his lips. "No se nada acerca estoy fumando."_

_"You speak better than I thought." His uncle patted him again. "I like you, Gabriel."_

_Gabe made another attempt to smoke, trying to save the cool he lost. It worked a little better this time, but Uncle Mateo still laughed._

_"I like you a lot," he chided. "Let me ask you a favor."_

_*_

_Montevideo, although it was large and beautiful, was the worst city Gabe had been sent to. He hated to admit it but he actually preferred the San Jose favelas. He'd shared a bathroom with his neighbors, who, fortunately for him, spoke a little Spanish. They were a married couple, a man from Puerto Rico and a Brazillian woman, with three kids. Sometimes, when they both had to go to work in the city, Gabe would babysit._

_Paula, Pablo, and Peter. The three P's. Gabe spoke to them in Spanish, and when he forgot some words, he'd teach them fragments of English._

_"Necesitan aprender otras idiomas," he'd said. "Ingles y Español."_

_And even when his own Spanish was fractured and broken at times, he still managed to get by talking with his gun. Uncle Mateo didn't ship him out for no reason. In fact, his uncle never did anything for it to go unreciprocated._

_Gabe borrowed money to buy drugs and deal out to his friends for double the price. He was making a killing off of it too, until that Pete guy told him to fuck off and threatened to send his lackeys after him. Gabe reminded him that he was like a South American mafia prince, which resulted in Uncle Mateo sending him out of town for starting a civil war on the streets._

_"I'm not even a fucking drug dealer, Gabriel!" He'd said. "I deal arms, but I still have to protect my reputation. Where the fuck am I gonna get the 'tons of weed' you said I have?"_

_"I don't know," Gabe shrugged, "I heard Brazil got some."_

_"Then guess who's going to Brazil?" Uncle Mateo pressed the end of his cigarette on Gabe's arm, leaving a dark burn. "Your ass."_

*

"What a mess," Gabe says from the kitchen, watching the COs tackle inmates to the ground. He sees some of the eggs he scrambled earlier get thrown at a CO's eye, and the officer lets out a scream.

"Did you put sriracha in them again?" William calls from the doorway. He's got his hand shoved in a bag of Funyuns, crumbs decorating his collar.

Gabe laughs, "Yeah. I heard the inmates like them spicy."

"Not me," William says through a mouth of Funyun mush. "I feel like my tongue is getting fried whenever I eat them."

"You're White, Bill," Gabe walks over to him and snatches a Funyun out of the bag. "I put in Latin spice."

"I thought sriracha was Thai?" William asks.

Gabe hears a crash come from the back of the cafeteria and he shrugs. "I put Latin love in it, then. That's spicy," he winks.

William rolls his eyes and turns away, walking towards the back of the kitchen to inspect the sink. "You're too much."

"I think I'm just enough," Gabe smiles to himself when William doesn't turn around.

*

Spencer tugs on the hairs at the back of Brendon's neck. His hair's been growing out ever since the barber was released. The assistant warden's supposed to get on that soon, but Spencer hasn't heard much from him about it-especially now that the break had happened.

"You were trying to leave me," Spencer pulls harder.

Brendon's scalp is itchy and sore. He wants to apologize, and he knows Spencer wants him to, but he won't mean it. He knows the streets are busy out in the city now. He could hear the traffic and cars zooming past, far beyond the gates of the prison. He knows that the sky is getting duller these days, a world of gray and cold air.

He knows the truth outside this prison. He saw it with his own two eyes.

"You can't leave me!" Spencer shouts when Brendon doesn't respond.

He slips his free hand beneath Brendon's collar, swiping his thumb over the bruises he made a few days ago. He finally stops pulling at Brendon's hair and unzips Brendon's uniform, pressing his lips to the exposed skin. Brendon closes his eyes and thinks about being out in the city again. He thinks about exhaust pipes and neon signs, everything about being a free man.

Spencer's pushing in when Brendon opens his eyes again. He's face to face with Spencer's growing beard, the stubble rubbing his chin raw. Everything still hurts. He can feel the marks Spencer left on his hipbones when he gripped too hard, the handprint on his face where Spencer slapped him.

He hates Spencer. He hates what he does and how he makes Brendon feel when he's trying to fall asleep at night, staring up at the ceiling and wishing he could live anywhere but here.

He takes a long look at where his body meets Spencer's, where the bruises on his thighs become Spencer's pale hips.

Then the door swings open.

It's one of the CO's. His nametag reads "J. Walker," and Brendon thanks every God he can think of for Mr. J. Walker. And for Spencer being mad enough about the jailbreak that he forgot to lock the door.

"Smith!" The CO cries, his face red. "What the hell are you doing?"

Spencer furrows his brows. "Get out, Walker. It's just an inmate."

"Just an inmate?" Walker barks. "Inmates can't give consent! You are _raping_ an inmate!"

Spencer presses his lips together in a tight line and Brendon knows it's all over now. He tells himself he's safe now, but something's doesn't settle too well in the pit of his stomach. When he looks at Spencer again, Brendon sees the anger on his face.

"Well? Do you have something to say for yourself?" Walker places a hand on his taser. "Zip up your fucking pants, Smith. We're going to the warden."

Spencer takes a deep breath before standing up and looking at Brendon one last time. "Don't think this shit is over. I hope your boyfriend can still find the will to touch you after this."

"That's enough. Let's go," Walker mutters, grabbing Spencer's hand and ushering him out. "Stay here, inmate. We have to ask you some questions still."

And then they're gone, and Brendon's alone in the office. He can hear Walker yelling at some CO to come get him, but Brendon doesn't make any move to close the door.

He keeps thinking of what Spencer said, the words playing over and over in his head.

"Don't think this shit is over."

Brendon pulls out a mirror in one of Spencer's drawers. He looks at himself, all bruised and battered like he just came back from war. He tries to tell himself that he doesn't have to worry anymore, but he just can't.

The war is just getting started.

*

The laundry room is mumbling with rumors. Patrick's turning a dial on the washer when Frank walks past him. He catches his arm, latching onto his elbow.

"What's everyone so tense about?" Patrick asks.

Frank puts his basket on the top of the washer and sighs. "It's about that creepy ass CO. Smith, I think. Have you seen Ryan?"

Patrick thinks for a second before answering. "No. He's probably talking to William somewhere. I've been trying to fix this damn washer so I haven't run into him."

Frank looks away from Patrick's gaze.

"Why? Why do you need to see Ryan?" Patrick continues.

"The rumors are about Brendon, too," Frank shrugs. "It's none of my business, but I just hope the kid's alright."

Then Frank's gone, and Patrick's left to deal with his prophetic clues. Ryan's his friend, or at least, someone he talks to regularly. It's his business, too. He thinks it is, anyways.

He's still theorizing on the broken washer when a guard calls for dinner. He sees Pete sitting at their table once he gets to the cafeteria, awkwardly shifting around a silent Brendon. Whatever the rumors were, they took their toll on him.

"Where's Ryan?" Patrick asks, not acknowleding Pete. They had their moment that morning, and Patrick can still feel where Pete grabbed his wrist. He wants to talk about it and ask why Pete cared so much, but Brendon's silence is slowly shifting Patrick's focus.

Brendon doesn't answer, and Pete chimes in. "He's probably getting in line. Why don't you, Patrick?"

Patrick realizes that's Pete's attempt to get him away, and he complies. Pete knows Brendon better than him, so it'd be best for him to talk to Brendon. Patrick's starting to get hungry anyway, so he nods and heads towards the line.

Once Patrick's out of earshot, Pete turns towards Brendon. "Look, it's not your fault-"

"I know that!" Brendon exclaims, slamming his hand on the table. He feels some of the inmates look over at him and he shrinks back into the bench. He can hear them whispering and muttering about him, and he's sick of it.

"Everyone's talking about me, Pete." Brendon's voice cracks. He tries to swallow the lump in his throat before he continues, "They're all looking at me. They know what Spencer did. _Spencer_ knows what he did. He knows his impact."

Pete studies Brendon's face, the bags under his eyes catching his attention. "Have you been sleeping?"

"Not," Brendon sighs. "Not really. I haven't been able to for a while. I just keep thinking about it, you know?"

"Like you're reliving it?" Pete asks.

Brendon pauses. "Yeah. Like I'm there again."

"Shit, Brendon, do you realize that those are symptoms of PTSD?" Pete's completely abandoned his food now. "You need to go to your counselor or something."

"I'm not going to my counselor," Brendon asserts. "They've already spent the last hour asking me questions. And there's nothing wrong with me, Pete. I just need a few days."

Pete's skeptical, but he doesn't press any further. "Alright. Where's Ryan?"

"I don't know," Brendon puts his head in his hands. "I don't think he's going to talk to me. Not tonight or, or ever." He stutters. "Spencer knew that was going to happen. That bastard."

"Spencer's an asshole," Pete says. "But you'll be alright. Ryan will talk to you."

"How do you know?" Brendon finally looks up, his eyes red and wet. "How do you know he'll want to talk to me when I have Spencer all over me? I can't wash this off, Pete, I can't get rid of it. He won't want me."

Pete looks at him sympathetically before kicking his foot under the table. "Fuck Ryan, then. You don't need him." He smiles wide at Brendon.

Brendon's lips make a small smile in return, but the feeling is back in his stomach.

He doesn't think it'll ever go away.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another update in three days?   
> Yeah. I think I owe it to y'all for not updating in almost a year. Also, leave comments! I like reading them and it helps me guide the story.   
> (And if you've noticed, from the tags, I just had to add in twenty one pilots. This is just an all-bands story.)

"So Smith is gone," William says timidly, tapping his fingers on the dryer dial. He looks at Ryan, who gives him a small nod.

"Yeah." Ryan keeps his head down and folds a towel in half.

"Okay," William breathes. "So where were you at dinner yesterday? You left me."

Ryan shrugs. "I wasn't hungry."

"You're too skinny, Ryan," William jokes, poking a finger at Ryan's ribs. "You've got to eat."

Ryan smacks his hand away and walks away, his folded towels in tow. William doesn't chase him. Gabe told him the rumors last night, that Walker walked in on Smith and Brendon fucking. Everyone knows now, and as much as William wants to take Ryan's side, he feels bad for Brendon.

He hasn't been himself for the past few weeks. Every time William sees him in the rec room, he's alone mindlessly watching whatever's on TV. Ryan tries to talk to him sometimes, but Brendon pushes him away. Even when they pass by each other in the bathroom, William spots the bags under Brendon's eyes getting deeper and darker.

Patrick taps William on the shoulder. "Hey, do you know when electrical's coming down to fix that washer?"

William blinks, his mind torn away from his thoughts. "No. I don't even know if we have electrical anymore. This prison's broke."

Patrick groans, "Speaking of broke, has your commissary money come in? I know a while ago you were talking about your wife taking a while to send you more money."

"Nah," William laughs and runs a hand through his hair. It's getting longer. "We're going through some tough times right now, me and her. I haven't seen her or our daughter in a while."

"They don't visit you?" Patrick asks.

"My wife doesn't want to bring her down here." William answers. He clears his throat. "But, I mean, it's my kid. She'll have to bring her soon."

Patrick nods. "My family doesn't want to check up on me either. I'm the black sheep now."

"Everyone really just thinks we're fuck ups, huh?" William smiles. "Even the people who were by our sides the whole time we weren't."

" _Everyone_ fucks up. We just fucked up a lot harder," Patrick laughs, remembering that Pete's the only one who knows why he's in here. "But that's not a bad thing. You know?"

William nods and he looks genuinely happy again. Patrick hasn't seen anyone happy for a while, except for Gabe-that guy's always cheerful.

"You want to use this washer?" William points to the machine besides the dryer he's waiting on. "That other one isn't making a comeback."

Patrick laughs, "Yeah. Thanks."

*

"And this is your new office!" Walker-Jon, Tyler remember his first name now-says happily.

The room is average sized, but it's way too small for two people. There are two desks pressed up against a wall and one off to the side. Dun, the other guy they hired alongside Tyler, looks at the abandoned desk curiously.

"That was Smith's old desk," Jon shrugs. "We got some reports that he had drugs in there, so we confiscated everything already. Someone should be stopping by to get it soon."

Dun nods. "Not that it bothers me, but why are Joseph and I using the same office? I just haven't seen anyone with a co-office so far."

Jon sighs, "Smith was one guy who did twice as much as he needed to. Probably because he was handing out drugs to the inmates, but the warden thinks we need two people to take over his spot. Literally, since we don't have another room for both of you to have your own office. Sorry."

"It's fine," Dun says quietly. "Thanks for showing us around, Jon."

"Anytime," Jon smiles. "If you ever need help or have a question, just let me know. You know where my office is."

When Jon walks out the door, Tyler feel a wave of awkwardness wash over him and Dun. The two had never met before today, and they didn't even know they'd both been hired until now. Tyler got a call from the prison saying he was in the runnings for the position and later that he was competing with one other guy, and frankly, he's mad he has to share the spot.

Tyler wordlessly brings out one of the desks from the corner and sets it up on the back side of the room. Dun would just have to work on the other half. Tyler hopes that they split up the work too, but part of him knows the warden's logic wasn't completely sound when he hired two people to replace one person.

"Did you see the schedule Jon gave us?" Dun asks after pushing his own desk to his side of the room. "We have about an hour until we need to go out there and look over lunch. Then it's just walking around the recreational areas until dinner."

"Weird how they didn't split the work, too," Tyler jokes.

"Yeah," Dun smiles. "I'd thought they'd wanted one of us to walk around rec areas and the other to, I don't know, check on the labor, but I guess they literally want us to replace Smith. I wonder what kind of a guy he is. To think someone would rape an inmate."

Tyler's ears perk up when Dun says that. "He raped an inmate?"

"The assistant warden told me before you got here. They're trying to keep quiet about it." Dun shakes his head. "That's a shame. I feel bad for whoever it was."

Tyler nods and glances at the clock. He has a whole hour with this guy, and he talks a lot out of nervousness. It doesn't really bother Tyler, though. It passes time.

So he listens to Dun talk about how he saw a job listing online for the position, and how he's happy he finally got to put his criminal justice degree to work. He talks about the hard classes he took and the law enforcement courses he took in high school. Tyler realizes he hasn't responded for a while, so he does.

"I did sociology," he mumbles. "I saw that some CO's majored in sociology and thought it was the right job for me."

"I should've done that," Dun says thoughtfully. "It'd probably be more interesting than criminal justice."

"Not really," Tyler admits. "I mean, it's cool to study people and all, but sometimes I thought about changing my major. I just didn't follow through with it. I was there on a basketball scholarship and my parents were really rooting for me to do something professional. I wanted something to fall back on."

It's the most he's said. He feels good about that.

"You did basketball?" Dun asks curiously. He's not really paying attention to his paperwork, just looking at Tyler.

"Yeah," Tyler puts his pen down. "It was the only thing I was good at in high school. My parents were coaches, too. I had to make 500 shots everyday before dinner to practice."

"Wow." Dun folds his arms over his chest and leans back. "I never did a sport religiously like that. I played soccer and stuff, but I was more into music. I still am."

"Same here," Tyler nods. "I still play piano sometimes. I'm picking up on ukulele though. What do you play?"

Dun smiles, "Drums. I taught myself when I was little and I've been playing ever since."

Tyler grins. He thinks they'll get along just fine.

*

The room is cold and uncomfortable. It's different from his counselor's room, warm with a heater and a Vicks humidifier. The policemen look at him a different way then his counselor did; they lean away from him and the desk seperating them, their lips in a tight line. He feels like he's more of a culprit than a victim.

"How long has this been going on?" One of the officers ask.

Brendon closes his eyes. He doesn't want to answer, doesn't want to even think of Spencer's face.

"Inmate," the other officer says firmly. "We asked a question."

Brendon opens his eyes. His orange jumpsuit is bright enough to reflect onto his handcuffs, though the only light in the room is a dull lightbulb hanging from the popcorn ceiling. The two policemen stare at him.

"About a year ago," he whispers, his voice hoarse. "I don't know exactly how long."

_It must've been a year ago_ , Brendon thinks. _That's when Ryan came. He still has about another year. Trespass isn't too bad._

"And how long was your sentence?" They ask.

"Four years," Brendon states clearly.

"For what?" One of the officers ask curiously. He has an ugly mustache and a receding hairline, and Brendon doesn't want to tell him.

"Drug trafficking." He replies hestitantly.

The other detective, the one with red hair, lets out a laugh. "Is that why you wanted drugs from Officer Smith? Do you have an addiction?"

Brendon feels his heart pound. He's pissed now, but he tries to keep his cool.

"No, sir."

"Then why did you have sex with Officer Smith?" The policeman with the fucked up hairline asks.

"It wasn't consensual," Brendon admits.

"He forced himself onto you?" The red haired officer asks.

"I," Brendon looks at them nervously. "I don't remember."

The two men mutter something under their breath and write more notes down. Brendon really can't remember the first time Spencer had messed him with him. He knows it wasn't consensual and that he's been violated, but he's not sure if he explicitly told Spencer "no."

"Do you remember giving specific consent to Officer Smith?" Brendon's not sure who asks, staring at his reflection in his handcuffs.

"No," Brendon says. "I don't really remember a lot of the encounters. I'm sorry, sir."

The red haired policeman writes something else down and clears his throat. "Officer Smith will be tried for rape. I'm sure you know that inmates can't give consent and that this qualifies as rape."

Brendon nods.

"The answers you've given will be used as testimony in his trial," the other officer says. "We've concluded that it would be traumatic for you to see Officer Smith again, so you will not have to be present to testify."

Brendon quirks an eyebrow. "You've concluded that?"

He nods. "You seem to be identifying with some symptoms of PTSD, according to your counselor."

"Officer, I don't have PTSD," Brendon insists.

"It's not our job to deal with your mental issues," the policeman with the mustache says roughly, getting up and motioning for Brendon to follow suit.

Brendon stands up and shakes his handcuffed hands, making the chain link echo in the nearly empty room. "Officer, I don't have PTSD; don't use that diagnosis in the trial, please."

"Move, inmate," they push him out of the room.

Brendon's heart hammers in his chest. Spencer will know he's ruined Brendon. He'll get off on it too, and Brendon doesn't trust him or anything. He doesn't feel safe, like Spencer will somehow break out of his own jail-they told him he couldn't be sent to the same facillity as Brendon-and find him.

The policemen find a CO standing out in the hallway. "Come get your inmate. We're leaving."

"I don't have PTSD!" Brendon yells again, his whole body shaking. He wants to cry, but he doesn't have anyone's shoulder to lean on anymore. Ryan won't talk to him.

The CO grabs Brendon by his wrist, unlocking the handcuffs with a key on his belt loop. When Brendon gets a good look at his face, he sees that the officer is new and unfamilliar. _He must be replacing Spencer_ , Brendon figures.

"Inmate," he says, his voice oddly high and soft. "Do you need to see your counselor?"

Brendon shakes his head. He looks at the CO's name tag. _T. Joseph_ , Brendon thinks. Officer Joseph's face softens and he hooks the handcuffs back onto his belt loop.

"I think you need someone to talk to," he says, genuine care in his voice. "You can come to my office."

The thought of being alone in an office with a CO freaks Brendon out, so he shakes his head again.

"There's another guy in my office, if you don't want to talk to me. They hired two new officers." Officer Joseph motions toward the hallway besides them.

Brendon lets out a sigh of relief. He wouldn't be alone, and that's all he needs right now. He follows behind the CO into the same office Spencer had. The room is still an ugly shade of green and Brendon feels memories flood back into his head, but he can't put his finger on a single one.

"You have his office," he says under his breath.

Officer Joseph takes a seat behind his desk. "Yeah. Pull up a chair."

Brendon looks around, briefly glancing at the other CO. He has dark brown hair, a slight red tint at the roots. His nametag says "J. Dun," and he looks at Brendon sideways, not too sure as to why he's here.

"I have a chair over here," Officer Dun points to the corner behind him.

Brendon nods and drags it over to Officer Joseph's desk.

"Did those officers tell you that you have PTSD or," Joseph shrugs, "what happened?"

"My counselor told them I have PTSD," Brendon relaxes into the chair. It's soft and cushioned. "And yesterday my friend said I'm showing symptoms of it. I don't know."

Joseph nods. Brendon feels relaxed around him. He seems like he cares, moreso than any of the other COs he's seen in the time he's been incarcerated. The other CO, Dun, looks over at them.

"Are you Brendon Urie?" He asks.

Brendon nods. None of the COs had ever called him anything but "inmate," Spencer aside.

"I heard about your case," Dun says softly. "I'm sorry."

Joseph looks like he's gotten the hint and says a quiet "oh" under his breath. "I didn't know it was you. I should've known since those policemen were interrogating you."

Brendon shrugs.

"You know, I've dealt with similar issues," Joseph says when the room gets silent. "I haven't experienced a traumatic event like that, but I definitely know what you're feeling. You're not abnormal or anything for having a mental illness."

"And you're not alone," Dun adds on, looking up from the papers scattered on his desk.

Brendon smiles at them. They're the nicest COs he's ever seen, and they treat him like an actual human being. Not anything like the fuck up that everyone seems to think he is, Ryan and Spencer included.

"You're welcome to talk to us anytime you want since you don't want to see your counselor," Joseph suggests. "Sometimes we'll be out of the office, but at least one of us should be here."

"Oh shit," Dun murmurs, leaning over his desk to check the paper posted on the wall. "Dinner starts in five minutes."

Joseph nods, "We'll bring you over then."

Brendon grins at them. It's obvious they're new to the job, but they have good intentions. He feels a little more secure knowing they're the ones patrolling the hallways now.

*

It's late at night when Ryan finally speaks up.

"Is it because he has more meat on him?" Ryan gives a disheartening laugh. "Because he's not a skinny twig? Because I am?"

Brendon sighs and stares up at the ceiling. He promises himself he won't look down at Ryan's bunk.

"No," Brendon groans. "What are you even talking about? It wasn't consensual, how many fucking times do I have to tell people? Everyone acts like I'm the one at fault."

"You should've told someone," Ryan says venomously and Brendon breaks his promise.

"Fuck you," he spits. "I did this all for you. You wanted drugs and I gave it to you. It cost my sanity and my body but I gave it to you. I was scared he would do it to you too, or that no one would take me seriously. Of course I wouldn't tell anybody, you fucking asshole."

Ryan stares back at him with wide eyes. Brendon's never yelled at him before, as passionate as he is. It makes Ryan's heart sink. He opens his mouth to say something but nothing comes out.

Brendon waits another minute before he lets out a breathy laugh, turning onto his back and staring at the ceiling again.

"Whatever, Ryan."

 


	10. Chapter 10

_The yard was mostly empty now. Patches of grass had slowly turned brown after months of drought, and the flowerbed tucked into the corner of the vegetable garden was filled with drooping plants. The tulips William used to cut were wilted, their vibrant petals losing color. The violets grayed and layed their heads to rest on the soil, their stems long and weary. William frowned. Even the sunflower petals were beginning to fray, and he forgot why he'd even planted those in the shade of the shed. He was new to gardening then, he remembered._

_He glanced at the red rose in the center of the flowerbed and held his breath. Its petals were rusting at the edges. The entire stem bended down to hide the spread of the black spots on the rose, like it was hiding the plague. William felt a pressure sink in his chest, carving in on his ribcage._

_"My rose," he whispered in the empty field._

_The volleyball net had been taken down, as well as all the rags on the clothesline._ His _clothesline._

_The shed, too, was devoid of anything that had ever been tainted with his touch. There wasn't a speck of dust that came from him. The shed had even been repainted, a dark red over what was once an off-white, beige tone._

_"Like Tom Sawyer," he'd said proudly, back when they first painted the shed. "Except it's not a fence. And I'm not painting the fence."_

_William closed his eyes at the thought. He wished he'd painted the fence and wished her a good fucking life repainting all of that like an overacheiving asshole, like someone who wanted him gone without a trace-_

_He opened his eyes and saw a tub of black paint at the very back of the shed. He didn't find a brush or anything but, whatever. He didn't need one._

_He opened the can and poured some on the side of the shed, watching the paint trickle down the wood. He used some on the other side and left a fair share on the carpet inside of the shed, too. Closing the door, he even painted the door black in big, ugly spots._

_With a laugh, he ran to the patio and drizzled paint all over the bricks lining the empty space. He worked hard on the paito because she thought it was just so beautiful, and now it was stained. By him, the last person she'd want to think about in her stupid house._

_It wasn't his anymore._

_The thought made his skin crawl and he threw the can of paint at the door. The glass was covered in black. He watched some of the paint drip onto the brass doorknob before he heard the latch on the fence turn._

_Shit._

_He heard the blades of grass rustle as footsteps came even closer to him. There was nowhere to hide. The door was locked and the area was clear of any obstruction. He wasn't getting away this time, but something in his chest fluttered at that._

_Now they would know._

_The footsteps finally landed on the patio and a scream pierced the air. William smiled. That was his cue. It was his time now._

_He turned around and waved a stained hand at her. Her eyes were wide and a breeze rustled the strands of hair that fell out of her messy bun. The bump of her belly was a little bigger now, protruding from her thin figure. William forgot how far along she was._

_Her jaw went slack and she protectively placed a hand on her stomach. William let out a heavy breath. He wouldn't do anything to the baby. Her image of him was far too low now, he figured._

_William watched her chest rise and fall before he finally spoke._

_"Hey, Christine."_

*

Patrick wiggles the toes on his right foot. They'd fallen asleep after Pete first placed his elbow above Patrick's knee, and now he's sure Pete's attempting to practice some form of first aid with pressure points. It's working, whatever _it_ is, but Patrick figures some circulation would be nice.

"Hey, man," Patrick whispers, poking a finger at Pete's cheek. "Can you get off of me?"

Pete has his nose in some book he checked out of the library, his eyes making their way down the pages. The spine of _To Kill A Mockingbird_ is pressing into Patrick's side, his orange suit folding over the cracked paperback. Patrick jerks the muscles in his leg again, pushing up against Pete's weight.

"You can read in your own bunk, you know. I'm sure there's better lighting," Patrick suggests. "You'd be closer to the window."

"I like your bunk." Pete replies absentmindedly, his long fingers pinching a page end.

Patrick sighs. The finger he used to poke at Pete's stubbly cheek now idly rubs against Pete's chin, the small hairs sliding past his cuticles. He takes a long look at Pete and his firm gaze on the book before tilting his chin up.

"Hey. I can't feel my leg, man," he says once he establishes eye contact with Pete. "You can find some other way to use me as a pillow without cutting off blood flow to my feet."

Pete laughs and sets his book down. "Use you as a pillow?"

"You know what I meant, oh my _God_ , Pete," Patrick grins and finally shoves Pete off of him, rolling him onto his back. "Why do you make everything so tense and intimate?"

"I'm always tense and I'm an intimate person." Pete shrugs. "Sorry, 'Trick."

Patrick glances at Pete's lips and sighs. "We still haven't talked about the whole prison break."

"What's there to say?" Pete sits up on his elbows. "Like, 'sorry Pattycakes, I just have to keep you out of trouble all the time so I have a human pillow around.' I'm not that much of a self-centered asshole."

"You weren't being self-centered, I just don't know why you care so much about-" Patrick pauses and looks away from Pete, focusing in on the flaking paint on the wall. "I just don't get your intentions."

"You want to know my intentions?" Pete sits all the way up now and places a warm hand on Patrick's shoulder. Patrick jerks away, but Pete keeps a firm grip on him.

"You're my friend," Pete shakes his shoulder with a tiny smile on his lips. "That's enough for me to want to get you out of trouble."

Patrick lets out a breath. "I don't get you. I don't get prison, but. I mean."

He keeps stuttering, his eyes darting all over the room. He glances at Pete with a worried look and lets his head hang down, his thumbs pushing against each other awkwardly in his lap.

"This isn't what it's like on TV, you know. This doesn't seem believable," Patrick finally says.

The hand on his shoulder slips down to his forearm, and the situation is way too intimate for him. His thumbs move slowly in a release of stored up energy Patrick has, trying to ignore Pete's fingers idly rubbing at his wrist.

"Nothing's like it is on TV, dude." Pete laughs like the first time Patrick told him too much, like he's got it all figured out. "But we live and we move on anyway. Nothing's really believable, but it happens."

Patrick makes a small nod with his head and finally looks up at Pete. His eyes drop down to Pete's lips, and then the slow rise and fall of his chest. Patrick feels a little burst of pressure move up through his abdomen and he blushes.

"You're really close," he laughs nervously. If Frank could see this, he'd smack Patrick for being so stupid. This is an opportunity to finally initiate something and he's walking away from it.

He's walking away from Pete. Again.

"Oh," Pete clears his throat and scoots back, the warmth of his hand disappearing from Patrick's arm. "Sorry."

"Yeah," Patrick whispers. Frank would definitely know what to do, but Patrick wouldn't take his advice anyway.

"I'm still using your leg as a human pillow because," Pete sprawls himself out in Patrick's lap and reaches for his book again, "because fuck you. Because I can."

Patrick laughs and wiggles his toes again.

He's okay with walking away.

*

Gabe struts into the cell like a goddamn supermodel, waving a jumbo sized packet of Haribo gummy bears in his hand.

"Guess who got the juice?" He says proudly. "Got the whole commissary whipped in exchange for my spicy eggs. And you thought I made them too spicy."

He tosses the bag at William's head, missing his hair by an inch. He knocks the pencil out of his hand instead, the gummy bear bag falling onto William's crumpled paper. William looks up at Gabe with his eyebrows knit, his lips taut and drawn in.

"They _are_ too spicy," William replies. "And I'm trying to do something important."

"I'm important!" Gabe scoffs.

"I'm not doing you," William laughs and chucks his pencil at Gabe.

He hits his right temple and points an accusing finger at him. "I told you I have a better aim than you!"

"Whatever, man," Gabe grins and picks the pencil off the floor. "I'd poke your eye out from here with this but it's too dull."

"And your aim sucks," William adds on. "Unless you're willing to buy me a pen with your influence over the Commissary guys. My wife won't send me money."

Gabe hands the pencil back and climbs up the small ladder into his bunk. "That's shitty. Why won't she send you money?"

William shrugs, even though he knows Gabe can't see him. "Going through a rough patch in our marriage, you know?"

"Baby mama drama," Gabe sighs. "I've been there."

"You got a kid?" William laughs. "Why am I not surprised?"

"Well," Gabe pauses. "I think I have a kid. I'm not too sure. There were some crazy prostitutes when I went to Montevideo, man, like I wasn't trying to get caught up in them but sometimes my uncle got me into new shit. New trouble."

"Your uncle needs to be the one in here," William says, "Not you. Or me."

"My uncle needs to be in maximum security. I wouldn't trust that guy with your dull ass pencil," Gabe jokes.

"Hey!" Willam inspects his pencil and sets it aside. "It's not that dull. But you should still get me a pen."

Gabe rolls over onto his side and grins. "Maybe. But you've got to get me a book or two in the library. I got my privileges revoked a while ago."

"Because your dumb ass decided to keep causing a ruckus every time you were in there," William says under his breath.

"No," Gabe leans over the edge of his bunk and looks at William. "I just make the library more fun. That place is boring as hell without me."

"That place is running well and regulated without you," William retorts. He leans back against the wall and crumples up his paper into a ball.

"Sure, Bill." Gabe laughs. "You'd be bored as hell without me, too."

William lets out a chuckle because, yeah.

He's right.

*

The recreational room is mostly empty now. The majority of the inmates had went to church for a Catholic service or the library after a new shipment of books came in, small bags of chewing tobacco wedged between the pages. Ryan sits alone in an uncomfortable wooden chair, leaving a comfortable space between him and Brent. Brent's intent on an HGTV marathon of "Fixer Upper," but Ryan zones out in between commercial breaks.

A finger taps on his shoulder, snapping him awake. He turns around and sees Pete pulling up a chair to his table, a little frown on his face.

"How are things with Brendon?" He asks, immediately pushing Ryan's buttons.

Ryan clears his throat and blinks owlishly. "Uh, it's kind of rough right now."

Pete nods like he already knew the answer, his brown eyes all-knowing. "It's kind of rough?"

"Yeah," Ryan reaffirms. He nervously pinches the flaking plastic on the edges of his chair.

"Well, I think it's kind of rough that you're being so hard on him," Pete says with a shrug. "I feel like you're just tryingto make this all about you. And it's not."

"It's not," Ryan repeats after him dumbly.

"Yeah," Pete insists. "It's not. I'm not trying to, like, stick my nose in your relationship, but I think you should look at the whole situation objectively. You wanted weed, he got you weed. But in exchange for that weed, Smith raped him."

There's a small pause before Ryan nods.

"You know that right?" Pete asks. "It was rape. I know that's a terrifying thought, that your boyfriend got raped and in part it's your fault, just out of causation, but it's not. Rape is all on the rapist, man. What's important isn't whose feelings got hurt, but who needs the healing."

Ryan blinks. He hadn't really thought of it like that.

"So I think you should be there for him a little more," Pete continues. "I think there was something especially wounding about it all, and you should just get over your little guilt trip and help him out. _That's_ a good relationship."

"Yeah," Ryan smiles. "I'll apologize to him. How did you know everything about us though?"

"It was obvious." Pete laughs. "But I talk to Brendon everyday too so I can just fill in the blanks on my own."

Ryan nods and glances at the clock.

There's another half hour before they're back into their cells for the night.

*

"Hey, Brendon," Ryan whispers up into the bunk above him. He reaches up and feels for Brendon, tapping at his thigh.

"What?" Brendon jerks away, and Ryan can hear him roll over onto his other side.

Ryan's arm retreats to his side and he sits up, craning his neck to see Brendon. "I'm sorry. I was acting like an asshole last night."

Brendon doesn't answer, so he keeps going.

"Pete had a little talk with me and I think I get everything now. I was getting clouded up with you getting raped and thinking it was my fault, and that, maybe, you were just trying to get away from me. But now I know that it's not true and I shouldn't let my insecurities get in the way of-"

He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes.

"Us."

Brendon still doesn't turn back around, but Ryan knows he isn't asleep. The silence hangs comfortably between them, like the tension is fading away. Ryan waits a few moments before laying back in bed, staring up at the rusting metal of the bunk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I don't completely explain William's backstory here (with reason), but yall will definitely get that in the next chapter. Js. Thanks for reading and leaving comments, and please continue to! I don't always reply to them but I read each and every one and they really do help me see what yall want and your interpretations of the story.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess who's back?  
> Thanks to everyone who's commented or given kudos! I love seeing all the responses to a story like Three Years, which seems to be growing more and more episodic with each chapter. Huh.  
> Also, happy Thanksgiving for all of you who celebrate it! (Even though it's tomorrow.)

The visiting room is cold and blank. Tyler leans against the white walls in boredom, waiting for the old, wrinkly man in front of the glass to finish berating the inmate before him. The prisoner sulks at the old man's words and his back is hunched over. _Saporta_ , Tyler remembers, _it's the tall guy who works in the kitchen._

The two men converse in Spanish, although Saporta mostly answer back in English. Tyler doesn't recall much from the Spanish classes he took in college, but he can tell by their furrowed eyebrows and heavy voices that they're in some sort of argument. The old man coughs a lot too, and Tyler can't help but think he's sick.

"Lo siento, lo siento," Saporta chants over and over. "I'll try again, tío. Perdóname."

Tyler raises an eyebrow and shifts his weight. "Tío" means "uncle," if he recalls the second unit of Spanish correctly.

The old man, Saporta's uncle, coughs again and covers his face with his hands. He looks a little less angry now. Saporta's still hunched over and mumbling the words "lo siento" between his shallow breaths. Tyler looks down at his watch. The two have a few more moments with each other before their hour is up.

"Tío," Saporta begins, but his uncle shakes his head.

He says something Tyler can't make out. Dun's on the other side of the glass, monitoring the visitors and slowly letting in more people. It's a stupid system, Tyler knows that, but the warden thinks it allows a little privacy for the inmates.

Saporta's uncle sits back in his chair and folds his arms across his chest. He looks tired and worn out. He hangs up his phone and walks away, not leaving a single trace of a goodbye for his nephew.

Saporta is slow to turn around, his whole body droopy and lanky. Tyler's hands fumble with the door handle and he holds the door open for him, following close behind as he watches Saporta drip down to his cell.

*

The cell is empty without William. Gabe reasons that he's out in the rec room gossiping with Ryan. He even entertains the thought of going out there too, putting on a smile and clowning around before mixing some spices together in the kitchen. The head inmate of the kitchen doesn't really mind that Gabe slips in there from time to time. It lessens the pressure of cooking and serving meals.

Gabe takes a deep breath. He doesn't feel like himself now.

His uncle's sick and withering away, and as much as he hates his Uncle Mateo, he wishes he could be there for him. He wishes he could go back out to San Jose and bring back suitcases full of money from his miniature prostitution ring and kush from mystics, make his uncle smile big and bring out a box of cigars to celebrate. He wishes he could glue back the bond that he's severed with his family.

They were always so close.

Even when Gabe fucked up and his uncle sent him down to the favelas of South America, he still felt close to his entire family. When he managed to smuggle swarms of weed across borders, onto ships, and even into planes, his family patted him on the back upon his return. His parents never knew what exactly he did for a living, but he felt supported.

He felt strong.

His uncle yelled at him in the waiting room for getting caught for something so dismal.

"Drug possession," he'd said. "You've always been faster than the others, but still so stupid."

Gabe laughs at the thought. His uncle is sick and some disease is lying underneath his old, wrinkly skin, and there Gabe is in prison. He's always been quick to get away and even quicker to get caught-but this time his uncle's got him trapped.

A tear leaks out of the corner of Gabe's eyes, and he hesitates to wipe it away. Taking a deep breath, Gabe looks around the cell, trying to regain a sense of his surroundings. He takes a glance at the stack of books underneath William's bunk, a shriveled-up copy of Mark Twain's "Huckleberry Finn" sliding out from the shadows. Curious, he opens to the first page.

A folded piece of paper falls out, thick graphite staining its thin lines.

Gabe unfolds the paper and reads William's distinct, flimsy handwriting.

_Dear Christine,_

Gabe recognizes that name; he often found it pouring out of William's mouth in a stream of "I miss home" and "you _wouldn't_ know what it's like taking care of a family like mine."

_I am so sorry. I know you won't believe me, but I need to tell you that I am._

The next sentence is crossed out, although Gabe can make out the words "love" and "you."

_You don't have to forgive me. I'm not asking much of you. But if you could please bring Genevieve down. I'd be the happiest man in the world. I love her, and she's my daughter too._

_I would never do anything to hurt her, and nothing I did was to hurt her. Please bring her to visit, you don't even have to look at me in the visiting room. I just need to see her. Please. It's unfair that the only time I saw her was at the trial. I wasn't even there for her birth-what kind of a father am I?_

The rest of the page is blank. There's a light scratch of a pencil marking in the margins, and Gabe assumes it's from when his gummy bear toss knocked William's pencil down.

Gabe rereads the letter over and over. The words are engrained in his mind as he comes to the slow realization that William is no longer married to his wife. He thinks back to all the times William talked about his home life, watching the Superbowl with Christine and Genevieve or making his infamous pumpkin pie for Thanksgiving.

William had been lying about everything. He's only ever caught a glimpse of his daughter-

Gabe wonders what else he's lied about, and he wants to be disgusted by William's smug attitude about his fake family, but he's entirely too sad to try. William clearly loves his family, so much so that he fantasizes about them being together and happy.

Gabe's in the process of folding the paper back up when the cell door swings wide open. The new guard, Dun, is standing in the dimly lit doorway, wearing a straight face and looking into the cell with a small envelope in his hand.

"What do you want?" Gabe asks.

"Your counselor wants to see you," Dun replies.

Gabe pauses. "Why?"

"You got a letter that seemed pretty heated and angry," Dun answers with a shrug, "I think it's from your wife. I skimmed through it when I was checking it. But your counselor thinks you need to vent about your feelings or something."

Gabe furrows his eyebrows, confused. "I think you have the wrong guy. That letter's probably addressed to my cellmate."

"Oh," Dun looks around the cell. "You're not Beckett? William Beckett?"

"I'm-"

Gabe stops himself. He feels curiosity peak inside his brain and he sets his moral obligation to William's friendship aside. Besides, the new guard has never seen Gabe or William before-he's sure he could use his old Montevideo lying skills.

"I'm William," Gabe laughs. "It's just that my wife has written me in so long, you know, I thought it must've been for the other guy. Where's the letter?"

Dun hesitates before handing the letter in his hands to Gabe. "Your counselor-"

"You know, I had some bad ham at lunch," Gabe places a hand on his stomach accordingly. "I feel really sick. I've been lying around in this cell all day because I'm all stopped up; do you think there's any constipation medicine at the commissary? Oh God, I'm so bloated."

A disgusted frown finds its way onto Dun's face. "I'm sure you can go check. I'll tell your counselor your sick."

Gabe waves his hand in the air like a distressed maiden, his eyes closed as a final touch. When he hears the door slam, he climbs up to his bunk and opens the letter.

_William,_

_Stop writing letters. I don't want to see you or speak to you ever again. We were never a family, and you are a pathetic excuse for a father and a husband. I could go on about your habitual drinking and gardening with friends, but you really aren't worth all that time._

_Leave me alone. I don't care if you're sorry. Write to your mom-you two have a lot in common now, because she's not getting to see Genevieve either. Neither of you were there for me in anything related to Genevieve. Not birth, not helping out with her in her first few months, nothing._

_But to address your last letter-_

_No. We replaced the fence, and I dug up all your wilted flowers._

Christine didn't even sign her name at the bottom. Gabe grimaces. _Either William did something truly horrible to her or she just isn't a class act_ , Gabe concludes, _and what the hell was he doing asking about a fence and flowers?_

The cell door opens again and Gabe quickly shoves the letter in his pillowcase. He picks at a dry, hardened cuticle, a look of concentration coming upon him.

He hears William's voice and feels his heart drop in his chest.

"Where have you been, man? The library got some new shipments of books, and I could've gotten you something since you want to be so reckless in there and get banned-" He pauses. "Why do you look so sad?"

Gabe laughs and turns his attention away from his cuticle.

"Constipation is a bitch."

*

"Hey, did you hear?" Ryan asks out into the open silence of the cell. He's got his hands tangled up in yogurt and oats he stole from the kitchen, all in the name of DIY lotion. It's a little disgusting, but he needs to sell something to all the guys in the prison with inflamed rashes in their nether regions.

Brendon doesn't respond. He has some kind of journal in his hands, the spine cracked and old.

"Okay," Ryan says. He pours water from his Aquafina waterbottle into the yogurt-oats mix. "Well, Gabe's making the Thanksgiving dinner this year. And the warden's letting him get an actual turkey! Not one that's alive, of course, but. It won't be shredded turkey burritos this year."

Brendon briefly laughs, quickly feiging indifference by morphing his snicker into a cough. He readjusts his reading glasses and continues to ignore Ryan. Ryan smiles and mixes his DIY lotion a little more.

"Do you think putting yogurt on your dick will give you an infection?" Ryan asks curiously.

"What the fuck?" Brendon laughs hard this time, finally breaking his bearing. "What are you doing?"

"In the laundry room Frank told me some of the other prisoners are getting bacterial infections from not turning in their cum-stained underwear and staying out in the humid ass field. Like, yeast infections. So I'm making a yogurt lotion to help with it, because I read that yogurt helps with stuff like that. But it seems kind of nasty, putting yogurt on your-"

"Ryan," Brendon laughs again. "Shut up. That's so weird."

"I'm just trying to make money," Ryan says with a shrug, still smiling to himself.

The two return to silence, but Ryan can breathe the air a little better now.

*

Frank keeps making faces at the wrinkled jumpsuits he's folding, frowning at the unruly creases near the zipper. Patrick laughs at his indignation and takes it upon himself to rewash Frank's pile of jumpsuits, hoping there's enough detergent in the closet to redo such a big load.

"I'll hang them straight," Patrick offers. "You know William can't remember to hang these for shit."

William looks up and jets out his middle finger. "Fuck you. I got other loads to do."

"Speaking of fuck," Frank says quietly, scooting closer to Patrick's side with a mischevious smile. "How's you and Pete?"

"Oh my God," Patrick's eyes widen and he rushes to the Tide detergent he left at the broken washer.

Frank follows close behind. "Tell him how you feel."

"This isn't Hercules, Iero, I'm not about to start a musical number in the laundry room of a prison," Patrick says sternly.

Frank ignores his protests. "I'd bet money he feels the same."

"I'd pay you money to leave me alone," Patrick retorts, grabbing the Tide and walking away. He puts a little more pep in his step, hoping Frank would stop trailing him in hopes of instigating some kind of love confession.

Ryan walks past, a big blue basket in his skinny arms. "I heard 'pay' and 'money.' I'm down."

Frank laughs, "What happened to your DIY lotion?"

"Still working on it," Ryan answers. "I need to do some more research in the library. And maybe pick some flowers from the field, make it a little more fragrant."

Patrick smiles. "Do you really think a bunch of burly men with yeast infections are going to want to have dicks that smell like wildflowers?"

"What a poetic way to say it," Ryan says, dumping his load of wet laundry into the dryer. "And yes. The smell is, like, half the ingredients of lotion."

"Yeah, at Bath and Body Works," Patrick quips.

"Okay, whatever. I'll make an alternative unscented lotion, how's that?" Ryan suggests.

Patrick shrugs. "Sure, I don't know. I don't have a yeast infection."

"But when you do," Ryan leans a little closer to Patrick and winks, "you know who to call."

*

Tyler leans back in his office chair, stretching out his abdomen. He takes a sip from his bottle of Powerade that he got from the vending machine in the visiting room when no one was looking. He looks up to the ceiling in thought, then over to Josh.

"Hey, I saw online that some prisons have a music room," Tyler says. "I think we should have one. Give the prisoners something positive and fun to do with their free time."

"They're already doing positive and fun stuff," Josh replies.

"Watching Chopped for two hours and fighting in the library is not positive and fun," Tyler laughs.

"Okay, true," Josh says with a smile. "But will the warden approve funding for a music room?"

"It doesn't hurt to ask," Tyler suggests. "We should ask. Together. If two people think it's a good idea, it'll probably convince him."

"Three people!" Josh adds. "We can get Walker in on it too. He plays bass; hey, we all play instruments! Maybe we can take turns hosting classes for the prisoners. That seems fun."

Tyler nods and laughs. "And you said they were 'already doing positive and fun stuff.'"

"I'm just a fickle guy," Josh smiles.

"Yeah, do you want to grab dinner after work?" Tyler asks sheepishy.

Josh nods in agreement. "Sure, where do you want to eat?"

Tyler pauses before answering, "Hope you're not fickle with the Taco Bell menu."

Josh smiles, "Of course not."


End file.
